


Resurgence

by Garrae



Category: Castle
Genre: Angst, F/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Romance, Shooting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-13
Packaged: 2018-02-16 08:43:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 77
Words: 225,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2263242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garrae/pseuds/Garrae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dying had been all too easy.  It was coming back to life that was hard.  Starts immediately after Beckett is shot in Knockdown. (3.24)</p><p>Previously posted to Fanfiction.  All characters belong to Marlowe and ABC.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Death shall have no dominion

It’s been three days.

ICU is white, sterile and utterly terrifying.  But Castle still visits, despite the terror, can’t stay away.  So many tubes, wires, machines: breathing for her, forcing her heart to beat, keeping her alive.  She’d been dying, right there under his hands in the cemetery, died in the ambulance, died again in surgery, they’d said: they’d shocked her back to life with seventeen hundred volts through a defibrillator.  He’d only ever thought of electrocution as fatal, before then.

So many tubes and wires.  So small and white, unconscious.  Induced coma, to let her heal.  So still.  Only the faint, regular beep of the machines to tell that she’s alive, by grace of those same machines that breathe and beat her heart and eat and drink for her. Normally, faced with something he doesn’t understand, he’d be curious, inquisitive, he’d ask questions, research.  It’s how he got to here.  To her.  No more research, not here, not now.  He doesn’t want to understand, to face the wrenching reality of what each individual tube or wire is for, because he knows that if he starts down that road of exploration he will _also_ learn all the ways that the machines can fail, all the ways the electronic lines and noises can indicate that _she’s_ failing.  He can’t bear to know that, to be looking for it, listening for it.  Here in this sterile land, ignorance is – if not bliss – at least a source of...not discomfort.  Faith in the power of advanced technology, the 21 st century Renaissance Man’s religion.

They’ll let her wake, when the doctors feel it’s appropriate.  Well, they’ll stop forcing her to sleep.  Whether she wakes – that’s a different matter.  There are no guarantees, the doctors said.  Even Josh, who’d saved her there on the operating table while her blood rushed out, Josh whom he can’t dislike any more because Josh saved her when he couldn’t, even miracle-working surgeon Josh won’t give any guarantees. 

He remembers Jim Beckett’s shrunken, devastated pallor at the news.  He remembers Lanie, Ryan, Esposito sitting outside the operating theatre on hard plastic chairs, discomfort utterly ignored as they waited the hours it took to staunch the blood, mend the ripped flesh, insert so many tubes and wires.  He couldn’t sit.  He remembers Josh, still in scrubs with her blood on him where he’d saved her, slashed her chest open for heroic intervention: furious and shouting and throwing a punch and blaming him, until Jim Beckett shamed and stopped them.

So many tubes and wires, keeping her alive in some suspended animation: Snow White without the glass coffin.  No Prince Charming allowed beyond the ICU doors, infection risk too high to try waking this princess with a kiss, and anyway he doesn’t have the right.  He let her die.  No right or ability to revive a sleeping princess if you’re the one who let her die.

So many tubes and wires, visible through the porthole of the ICU door.  Keeping her alive, asleep.  But there are no guarantees that she’ll wake, no guarantees that even if – when: it has to be _when_ \- she does, she’ll be whole.

So many tubes and wires, but no guarantees.  He turns away from the small window in the door, a big man reduced to impotence by misery.  It’s been three days, and every day he’s come to see her, stare through the door in ICU, the only thing of any meaning he can do.  He couldn’t shield her, couldn’t keep her alive, couldn’t save her.  Watched the light go out of her with furious, helpless desperation, screaming her name in agony, trying to hold her to life through sheer force of will.  Of love.

He’d never said he loved her till that moment, never found a time or place.  He was with Gina, then she was – _is_ \- with Josh: he never had the courage to say it.  Not even that fractured, furious night before Montgomery died, when they fought again and she threw him out – he should have told her then, but he hid in subtext and cowardice, and then Montgomery was shot while he carried her away to save her and still he never said it.  So many chances missed, until she lay dying in the bright June sunlight and it was his only, last, chance.

So many tubes and wires. Surely all this technology can’t fail her now?  He walks away slowly, heavily, stone-faced, rigid shouldered.  He’s always worn emotion on the outside, except when it really mattered.  Then, he’d hidden it under innuendo and banter, childishness and arrogance: too scared to show the truth about his feelings until it was too late for it to count, until it flooded out of him, dam broken by bright crimson blood pooling in bright harsh sunlight.

_You have to live, Kate.  You have to._

He’ll be back tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, all the days until she wakes.  He doesn’t want to think how long that might be.  However long it is, the day she wakes he’ll be there, have been there every day for her.

He doesn’t weep for her.  Unreasonable as it is, he feels that if he weeps she won’t come back, she’ll die again.  Weeping is for death and funerals.  Superstition, maybe.  There’s nothing else to put his faith in, except the machines, the tubes and wires.

Once he’s home, safely in his study, where he’s put away the photo she didn’t know he’d taken because he cannot bear to look at Kate alert and aware and _alive_ , compared to that pale still body in among the machines that are all that keeps her living; here, safely in his study, he starts what he always does when emotion is too much, and begins to write.

Not Nikki Heat – that’s too raw, with inspiration lying still and white and small and unconscious in an ICU bed – not his laptop, the click of keys under his fingers too close to the metronome beat of the machines that keep her alive, and – superstition again – if the regularity of the click of keys fails, then maybe so does she – but paper, and an old fountain pen.

_Dear Kate,_

_I come to see you every day, through the window in ICU.  They don’t let me in: they don’t let anyone except the medical staff in, too scared that you’ll be infected by some opportunistic bacterium.  There are so many tubes and wires around you: it’s hard to spot you in among them, impossible to hear your breathing above the electronic noises.  But at least the noises tell me you’re alive, measure out each second that you’re still living in the ECG traces, count your heartbeats in the beeps.  I can see the intravenous stands, feeding you, hydrating you.  No more extra blood, which is some small improvement, I suppose. You’re so small and still and white, dark hair and eyelashes the only colour._

_I never appreciated machines the way I do now, when they’re all that’s keeping you alive._

_When you wake up, they’ll tell you what happened, how you took a sniper bullet to the chest, nicked your heart.  You were dying right there under my hands, when I caught you too late to save you: they brought you back in the ambulance and then you died again in surgery.  Josh brought you back, that time, brilliant last-ditch emergency operation.  I can’t hate him now, though I hated him because he had you and I didn’t. Though I think I love you more than he does: no-one could love you more than I do. Not that I told you, till it was too late for you to hear me._

_I sent Alexis to camp for the rest of the summer this morning, to keep her safe.  She didn’t want to go._

There’s an understatement.  His mature, intelligent, emotionally aware daughter had thrown a tantrum worthy of a two year old, shouting that she wouldn’t go, he needed her there, that he couldn’t do without her.  And when that hadn’t worked, she’d tried reason.  And when he’d been impervious to all of it, she’d cried.  He’d arranged it as soon as he’d got time, in that appalling, silent space where they sat devastated outside while Josh worked miracles in theatre to save her.  If Kate had been shot, then he had to keep Alexis safe, so he’d applied copious amounts of money and forced her into a place away from New York.  Anyway, she couldn’t stay in the febrile, emotional atmosphere, needed to be away from the life-or-death tension and the visits to ICU where Kate’s struggling for survival, while when he isn’t looking through the glass in the door he just waits for the phone to ring, terrified it will, terrified it won’t.

His mother won’t leave.  He’d offered her hotels, shopping, Vegas, LA, the house in the Hamptons and his platinum card, but she wouldn’t go, brushing all his entreaties away with sardonic words.  But he sees how she’s looking at him, and he knows that she won’t go because she wants to make sure he doesn’t do anything...stupid.  That’s not likely.  Not while...Just – not.  If there hadn’t been Alexis and his mother, and then if Kate hadn’t been clawing for survival, then, well, he still wouldn’t be...stupid.  Probably.

_She loves you too.  But she’s better off out of here. If…if you don’t wake up soon I don’t know what I’ll do. Keep visiting you, hoping.  Wishing I’d done something differently, something more._

_I always wanted to see what you looked like in bed, hair spread across the pillows.  But not like this. Never like this.  I always hoped that one day I’d see you in your bed, or mine, eyebrow quirked and biting your lip and giving me that come-on smile.  You knew –_ know _\- it drove me up the wall.  Now I’ll be happy to see your eyes open and Detective Beckett back in them, even in a hospital bed. They won’t give any guarantees, that you’ll wake, who you’ll be if you wake.  Not_ if _.  I won’t think_ if _._ When _you wake.  You’re a fighter – there’s a cliché from the writer that you’d roll your eyes at me for, if only you were here – so I think, hope, that somewhere under all the tubes and wires you’re fighting to come back.  I have to hope that.  I can’t bear to believe anything else._

_I’m so sorry that I couldn’t save you. Maybe if I’d said more, done more, been more, I could have made you listen, stopped you before you wound up here.  Maybe.  Maybe if I’d seen the glint sooner, moved faster, I could have pushed you out the way in time. So many maybes, and all of them wasted._

_I’m so sorry that I never told you I loved you when you could hear me.  So many chances, and I ducked all of them, scared you wouldn’t feel the same.  And then on that podium, giving the elegy, I thought you were finally telling me something, that there was a way for us. And then you were bleeding out on the grass, and we’d never had the chance to find out._

_Even if I wanted to go back to the precinct, I couldn’t.  I can’t face the guilt, and anyway there’s already a new Captain who doesn’t believe in civilians.  So even when you get back, I won’t be there.  The boys will look after you. God knows, I haven’t been able to.  You died.  I watched you die.  I can’t forgive myself for letting you die in front of me.  I never even told you I loved you till I let you die.  Other people brought you back.  I couldn’t. I haven’t been back to the precinct, seen the boys, or Lanie.  I can’t face them, knowing I wasn’t good enough.  Montgomery’s dead and you nearly followed him and it was all my fault.  Josh punched me, after he saved you.  I deserved it._

_I feel so guilty.  Not just that I couldn’t protect you or save you when you needed it, but that I re-opened all of this; set the chain of events in motion, two years ago._

He’d started to investigate himself, begun it in pride, arrogance, call it what you will; now he’s fallen, and in his fall brought down still harder the woman who’s become the centre, the focus of his world.  He’d wanted to help.  Well, mixed with an elephantine dose of showing off, proving that he could be as good a detective as she, showing her that he was worthy of her respect and admiration.  Not, then, of her love.  That came shortly after, when she threw him out her life: unimpressed, horrified, devastated, desolated.  When he realised that to her it wasn’t a game, a story, or a competition.  And then she’d been dragged back into it, started to investigate again: his fault: through Coonan, and then Lockwood.  And now a sniper’s bullet, twice killing her.

_I love you.  Just wake up.  Be you again.  Whoever you are when you wake up, though, I can’t imagine not loving you.  Just please wake up soon._

She’ll never read them.  Still, when he writes to her, the pain recedes a little way, diminishes, for a while, as he spills out his feelings through the ink.  But he doesn’t have the right to send them, he’s not her lover.  Josh is.  The man who could save her.  He’s just the man who let her die.

It’s getting dark, it’s late.  Not much day, when you spend half of it in ICU, watching, keeping vigil, like some mediaeval knight-errant.  Each day when he’s come home his mother’s been there, not needing to ask when she sees his expression, not hiding her concern for him as the lines start to wear into his face.  He eats.  He sleeps, intermittently, in fits and starts, jerking awake repeatedly as the nightmares gnaw into him and he sees her bleeding on the sharp green grass, red stain spreading in the harsh sunlight.

Three seconds from seeing the flash of sun on metal to realisation, to impact.  Three minutes of watching bright blood on green grass under blue clear sky, screaming her name and his feelings, before professionals took over.  Thirty minutes in the ambulance, watching her die once and be revived.  Six hours in surgery, dying again and electro-shocked back to life.  And now three days, watching through an ICU door.  Measuring out her fragile hold on life in numerals.  He’s not a numbers man.  He’s famous for words.  But his words have failed him, and numbers, to date, have not.

Three days, and she’s still alive.

_Kate, please don’t die again.  I love you._

Every hour she doesn’t die, she must be healing.  Every hour she doesn’t die, it’s more likely that she won’t.  Three days.  Seventy two hours.  Every hour, she hasn’t died.  Seventy two times, she _hasn’t_ died, to make up for seven hours before that, when she did, twice.

It’s been three days, and she’s still alive.


	2. It hurts to live

It’s been a week.

They’re going to take her out of the induced coma, today, restrict the drugs and let her sleep, or wake, more naturally. One fewer tube, for that.  She’ll be able to breathe normally – well, mostly by herself, normally is not something Castle is prepared to think right now - again, one tube gone, but still a nasal tube remaining.  Slow progress in the small reductions in the tubes and wires, offset by the increased count of scars and stitches.  Two more scars, one for the bullet, one for the slash-and-smash surgery that saved her.  So many stitches, under the surgical dressings, under the white sheets.  He’s glad he can’t see them.

Waiting in ICU, medical staff are measuring, tending, reading machines and electronics, monitoring changes.  None of it means anything to him, except that she’s healing, in body.  In mind – they’ll have to wait and see.  Jim’s there, but they don’t really talk, kept apart by what should bring them together, Kate/Katie, who hasn’t died, who’s perceptibly, now, clawing her way back from death.  Castle’s uncomfortable with Jim: Jim had come to him, begged him to stop Kate, and then he couldn’t.  He could save her from Montgomery’s killers, by sheer physical strength and size, but he couldn’t save her from the sniper.  He doesn’t know if Jim blames him for that, his failure to protect her, because that’s a conversation he can’t open.  Jim might blame him, for not saving his Katie.  (Never Castle’s Kate.)  Or worse, he might not, might forgive, or might say there’s nothing to forgive: none of that a consolation.  Any which way, Castle blames himself for this disaster.  If he’d said more, done more, found the right words...if he’d told her he loved her in plain language, that night, would they still have fought, or would she have walked away from her mother’s case?

They came to the hospital as soon as they learned that the doctors were going to start to bring her round.  They won’t go home, now, until she does come round.  It could be minutes, or hours.  Castle doesn’t think further than that.  It won’t be longer.  It can’t be.  But all he can do is sit and wait, pace and wait, sit and pace and wait again.  He has to see her eyes open, know if the woman he loves is still there.  Occasionally, Josh appears, looks through the glass, nods to Jim, ignores Castle, leaves again to save some other life.  There’s no conflict apparent, now, Jim’s presence as his daughter suffers negates all argument, and anyway Josh saved her, so how could Castle argue? 

In time, there’s a flicker of eyelashes, a change – so slight, but both of them can see it – in her face.  Still small and white and diminished, but not so deathly still.  Perhaps this is a move from coma to REM sleep: they’re not doctors, so how should they know?  Neither he nor Jim will leave until she wakes, until they see how she is when – it has to be _when_ – she wakes.  They won’t let her wake alone, unseen, unloved, even though she won’t know they’re there: it’s a necessary vigil.  But they don’t talk about that, either.  Jim knows how Castle feels.  He’s known, Castle thinks, for a long time now, but never mentioned it; maybe he knows how his daughter feels.  Used to feel.  No point, really, in thinking about that, until she wakes.

He’s trying not to think about anything other than her waking up, with Detective Beckett back behind her opened eyes.  He’s terrified she won’t be there, so many things that could be wrong, hoping that the worst will not have happened.  He only gets more apprehensive as the flickers of her eyelids increase.

Eventually – he doesn’t know how long it’s been, stopped looking at his watch some time ago – her eyes drag open, horrifyingly briefly, and shut again.  No chance to see what’s there.  Another long wait, before her eyes re-open, at first only pain, confusion and panic; _where-am-I_ : but then through that life, awareness and intelligence.  Just open long enough, to tell that Kate is in there, before they close again. Jim is unashamedly weeping, sitting on the hard chair by the door.  Castle turns away, out of view, holding back his own tears of relief.  He doesn’t have the right to share his feelings, even to have such feelings.  Jim does, Josh does.  But Josh isn’t there, and Jim is abruptly hugging him and so obviously expecting Castle to be emotional that it’s all too much.  Not manly, to be crying on each other, but perhaps understandable. 

The medical staff seem pretty happy with how it’s gone.  Castle’s staying tactfully out the way while they surround Jim, but Jim summons him to listen.  Seems that her only opening her eyes for a couple of minutes is good, that she went back to sleep is good, that she was aware is excellent.  The wounds are healing properly.  All in all, the medics are about as happy as medics ever get.  They’ll be able to let her out of ICU soon, but the best news is that she can have visitors now.  Well, when she’s awake.  Or he can sit and watch her sleep, if he likes.  They’re really talking to Jim, but Castle can sit and write anywhere, so it can be at Kate’s bedside if he wants.  They don’t need to worry as much about infection – though they’ve to be very careful about hand washing, and if there’s so much as a sniffle within a hundred yards of them they’ll be banned again – and so they’ll be allowed in.  He’ll be allowed in.

On his way home, he texts the boys and Lanie, then Alexis, short and to the point.  _Kate woke up.  It all looks good. Castle._   And when his mother sees him smile, tiredly but sincerely, she knows that Kate’s okay without him needing to say a single word.  That it’ll all be okay.  And again he dissolves into unmanly but unstoppable tears, sobbing his thankfulness into his mother’s arms, in these instants the small boy who’s still allowed to show emotions.  His mother is scarcely behind.

He’s had replies from everyone, variations on the theme of _Thank Christ_ , frequently with added profanities.  Lanie’s is the most effusive, probably because she knows more than any of them about what could have gone wrong.  He hasn’t seen any of them, though, hasn’t dared go to the precinct, or talk to them, in case they all blame him, he’s even managed to avoid them in the hospital.  Maybe, now Kate’s beginning to recover properly, he’ll arrange something.  But for now, his worst fears not realised, he can write again: but before he turns to Nikki and Rook, he picks up the old pen lying next to the laptop, pulls out the white notepaper.

_Dear Kate,_

_Today has been the first day in a week when I’ve ended it happier than I began.  You’ve woken up (though so very, very briefly) and it’s still you who’s there.  Even though there’s such a long road still for you to travel for recovery, it’s your personality: Detective Beckett back, the spark in your eyes.  I was so glad to see it.  We – your dad and I – didn’t know whether you’d wake up at all, when they discontinued the drugs, and even if you did, whether it might not be the same Kate Beckett.  So when you woke and even through the pain and confusion in your face it was quite definitely you, we wept all over each other.  God knows what the nursing staff thought of us.  It was so familiarly you that I half-expected an eye-roll or a bite of your lip, but that’s just a bit over-optimistic yet.  Still, it won’t be long before I can talk to you again, see you disbelieving everything I tell you on general Beckett investigative principles._

_I know you won’t be out of hospital soon, but now, even though you’re not out of ICU we can come and see you for real, not just through the door.  I’ve made arrangements for your room, once you’re let out – released.  It feels like you’ve been in prison.  Your health insurance is good, the NYPD scheme is very good, but I can do more for you and I have.  And before you start to argue, your dad knows about it and he let me.  (you’re not going to read this, so you can’t argue, which is likely just as well.  Arguing wouldn’t be good for your recovery and your blood pressure.) I can hardly wait, though I know I have to.  I’ve missed you, missed everything about you, even missed my ear being twisted.  I promise I won’t tire you out by talking too much, (I can see you roll your eyes at that) though even hearing you snap_ Shut up, Castle _, would be pretty fine right now._

_And eventually you’ll be better, back at the precinct, and we can get back to catching killers, just like before.  (I’ll convince the new Captain to let me back, somehow.)  Except that I want there to be one difference: I’m not going to hide how I feel about you any more.  (It was only you I was hiding it from.  Everyone else guessed long ago.  I think even your dad knows – that’s a scary thought.)  I’m not going to use subtext and silence and let the chances pass me by – pass us by – any longer.  I’m going to tell you, once you’re better, in case you don’t remember what I said as you were dying; in case I miss my chance again.  I don’t want to miss any more chances._

_I love you, Kate, and when you’re better I’m going to find out if you were saying what I think you were saying, trying to tell me, up there from the podium, and then I’m going to take you up on it.  I want to be the one who stands with you.  (Maybe, though, if we’re going to keep on getting into these life and death situations, with bulletproof vests on, insulation, bomb-proofing?  His ‘n’ hers? Pink and blue? I’ll take pink. Just as well you won’t read this, because you’d surely shoot me if I suggested it.)_

_But even there I’m deflecting, hiding. Seriously.  I love you, and I want to be with you.  And now you’ve woken up, and you’re still you, for the first time I think it might be possible._

_Love Rick._

And then he turns, inspired, enthusiastic and energised, to Nikki Heat, writing in the resilience and strength that he’s seen, using it in Nikki in a very different way from Kate, sleeping in the hospital, healing.  It’s the first time he’s been able to write in weeks, and he is so relieved and happy that he can’t stop.  He can see a – his - future, and it’s got Kate in it.

* * *

 

She hurts, everywhere.  There are tubes intruding in places she doesn’t want to think about, wires taped to her chest, cannulae and needles in her hand and arm.  Even through the fog of morphine she still hurts.  She’s woken in a sterile room, can hear the electronic beep of some machine.  She doesn’t want to open her eyes, exhaustion holding the lids down, but eventually she has to blink them open and see where she is.  Medics around her, two faces at the door.  Recognition: her father, and Castle.  Her eyes fall shut again, consciousness seeping away before any thought intrudes.

In the still of the deep night she wakes again, briefly, eerie green light from the electronic traces and soft beeps from the machines.  Her chest hurts, but when she sleeps she can’t feel any of it, the discomfort of the tubes and wires, the sharp pain in her sternum with every breath, the duller agony between her breasts, the pull at her side.  She doesn’t understand each separate source of pain, yet.  Too tired to ask.  She gratefully lets exhaustion and morphine pull her back under.  She remembers everything, every instant in the cemetery, and doesn’t want to know about any of it.

When she’s conscious again it’s daytime: there’s light that isn’t electronic green. Still the beeps, though.  And a tapping noise.  She’s too tired to place that.  She’s not willing to open her eyes, too much effort.  She hears the door open, through the fog of tiredness, hears the crisp tone of a professional, telling someone to leave while they check the dressings.  There’s a quiet rumble of assent, compliance, that she thinks she ought to recognise, but that too is effort she doesn’t want to make.  When cool fingers press gently over the dressing she winces even through the softening effects of the drugs and forces her eyes open.

“Show me,” she husks through a dry throat.  It doesn’t sound like her voice at all.  It sounds tired, and hurt, and somehow defeated.  The nurse starts, surprised, holds a cup with some water and a straw for her to soothe her throat.

“You don’t want to see, Miss Beckett.”  But she has to know what’s wrong.

“It’s Detective,” she rasps hoarsely.  “Show me.”

“I’ll get the doctor.”  When the attending doctor arrives, her eyes are shut again, but as the door shuts they peel open.

“What happened?”  It takes the doctor a while to explain, and by the end she’s too utterly exhausted to understand.   She slips back under, and the nurse returns to redo the dressings while she’s sleeping.

Castle’s waiting in the anteroom, tapping out random parts of story as he thinks of them, no structure yet, just episodes.  Narrative, for this part of his novel, will have to be imposed later.  It’s not like him, usually he has a reasonably clear plan, but everything is still shaken up, and clearly his brain is no exception.  Each individual paragraph is good, but there’s no coherence, no continuity.  A bit like his life, this last week.  However, Kate’s back.  Though a little more wakefulness would be nice to see: he still doesn’t quite believe that she’s really there. He can half hear an arid voice, questioning, and when the nurse hurries past him and some short minutes later the attending doctor hurries in there’s a leap of fear in his body that something’s gone wrong.  But the doctor’s mellow, reassuring voice doesn’t sound like there’s an emergency.  More like explanations.  He can’t hear the words, and unusually, for him, doesn’t try to listen.  He knows quite enough about the situation without needing more.  If she’s looking for explanations she’s definitely getting better.  Interrogation is, after all, a speciality of hers.

The doctor’s left, smiling at him distractedly – they’ll get used to seeing him here, he thinks, maybe he’ll learn their names - and the nurse has finished redoing the dressings and has come out, pauses at him. 

“You can go back in now, Mr Castle, but Miss Beckett is asleep again.”

“It’s Detective,” he says, gently.  “She’s an NYPD detective. She’ll like it better if you call her that.”  It’s who she is, sums up everything that she is, and he thinks she’ll want to be reminded of who she is.  “Is it normal, to sleep this much?” 

“Yes.  Sleep is how we heal, and she’s got a lot of that still to do.  So don’t tire her, okay?  Don’t you be disturbing her.” 

He won’t.  He wants her to be better.  But he has to see her, be there for her.  He’s probably just a bit obsessive about it, while she’s still in ICU.  When she’s out, maybe he won’t feel this burning need to be with her every moment he can, maybe he’ll be able to let her be alone, maybe he won’t feel that he has to stand between her and everything that could hurt her.  And while she’s sleeping, there’s no-one to tell him that he doesn’t have the right to do this.  He supposes that Josh must feel the same, but they manage to avoid each other perfectly.  Castle’s visiting hours are limited, and he envies Josh, who can visit any time he pleases.


	3. A time for sleep, and a time to wake

Each day, still tethered to her bed by tubes and wires, she sleeps a little less, she notices.  The doctors have explained again what happened, she’s been shown the stitching where there will be new scars.  One that killed her, one that saved her.  In both, the sutures spider across her skin, lines drawn across the livid bruising.  She made them bring a mirror, so she could see clearly.  She had to know: knowledge is power, and she needs power over something, control to balance the indignities of ICU, wires and tubes and IV lines; the catheter – she hates that most.  The chemical, medical, sterile smell around her, the bulky dressings making small movement difficult and needing changed far more often than she’d like.  She’d like her hair, and her body, washed in the familiar, comforting scent of her shower gel, lotion, shampoo and conditioner,  but that’s not possible for now.  Sometimes, she thinks there’s a nicer smell, the aroma of aftershave.  She knows, without needing conscious thought, that people visit, but she’s asleep so much that nothing has really registered yet.

Even when she’s not asleep, she keeps her eyes closed most of the time, too much strain to keep them open.  If her eyes are open she’s awake enough to think, in brief episodes, and she doesn’t have the strength to think.  So the next days pass, sleep, and mental vacancy.  Her father visits, and she wants to stay awake for him, but the worry on his face upsets her, so all too soon she shuts her eyes and tries not to see his expression on the inside of her eyelids.  The boys visit, but she keeps her eyes closed, not wanting to see their concern, not wanting her team to see the weakness in her glances, not wanting them to see the tiredness and defeat that haunts her or to know how much effort it is to look at them.  Lanie visits, and she can allow herself a little truth in front of her.  Lying to Lanie, a medic herself, is hardly likely to work. 

Castle visits.  Every day, for as long as he’s allowed.  She knows he’s there, has placed the aftershave aroma, hears the soft tapping on the keyboard.  She feels the weight of his gaze, the pressure of his concern, the oppression of his emotions spreading in the air currents.  She remembers everything, and she can’t deal with any of it.  The agony and passion in his voice as she fell, the words which only minutes before she’d been ready to hear, now polluted by the searing pain as the bullet hit and the tainted knowledge that he had said them only when she was dying.  Even though he couldn’t have said them earlier because she’d only let him know she was ready to move forward moments before.  She can’t separate her bodily suffering from the pain in his words: can’t separate the love from the screaming.  And she can’t deal with the mess it’s left her in; she can’t bear to look at him because everything she remembers is him leaning over her screaming _Stay with me, okay. Kate, I love you.  I love you, Kate_ and the pain and the lights going out.  If she looks at him now, in the flesh, that’s still all she can see.

So whenever he’s there, she keeps her eyes closed.  It’s easier that way.  Seeing him only hurts.  Seeing the love flaring in his eyes only hurts.

The doctors tell her she’s making good progress now, that she’ll be moved out of ICU very soon, though there’s a while to go in hospital yet.  The wires and tubes are coming out, slowly: the indignity and the weakness reducing.  But still, she finds it hard even to gather the energy to move her fingers, turn her head.  She supposes she should be content to be alive, as she so nearly was not, but she hates the feebleness of her body, the constant dragging of dull pain, the restrictions of enervation.  She hates that people see her like this: she who’s always been proud of her fitness, her body under her absolute control, her ability to do her job.  However fast she mends, it won’t be fast enough.

It’s not so much the physical damage she minds, it’s the shattering of her invincibility.  Of course she’s been hurt in the line before, but never like this, never been so close to death, never had to be held to life by tubes and wires and machines.  She’s frightened that she’ll not be the same, never recover fully.  She tries to ask the doctors, when no-one else is there, but they can’t give her the absolute assurance she seeks, just talk about _when you’re out of ICU, when you start the recovery program, then it can all be evaluated properly_.  It eats away at her, down inside where it can’t be seen.  She has to get better.  Because as her body is – so very slowly – healing, her mind is betraying her.  Memories should fade, not return, bright and harsh and sharp, as if they were reality. 

Somewhere yesterday, there had been a bang – and she had panicked, a spike of terror sending her rigid and terrified, biting a gasp back.  Fortunately it hadn’t been in visiting hours.  She doesn’t want anyone to know about that: she doesn’t want them to worry any more than they already have.  It’s to be expected, after what had happened.  It’ll pass.  This, too, shall pass.  But she still can’t look at Castle when he comes, tapping on and off on his laptop and in between the weight and demands of the emotions in his gaze pressing her down, trapping her in the memories.  She’ll need to be able to deal with him, soon.  ICU is almost done with her, and then she won’t be able to pretend that she’s sleeping any more.  She has to pull herself together, be able to cope with him there.

It’s all ruined. She’d been so close to being able to let him in, finally acknowledging everything she’d seen in his face for months, ever since he kissed her in an alley – of course she’d known.  She’s the best Homicide detective in the Twelfth, how could she not have known?  But it had taken her time to believe it, then there had been the chance at her mother’s case, and only after that had she realised: after she’d thrown him out, after he’d stopped her dying with Montgomery in an airplane hangar, only then had she realised what she wanted.  And so she’d told him, hidden in the eulogy, but she’d known that he’d understood.  And then it was all destroyed in noise and lead and pain.  It’s too much: she closes her eyes again and through the sightlessness hears the door open, smells the tang of Castle’s cologne.  She screws her eyes shut again, and drifts away.

Castle takes his accustomed seat, where he can watch Kate sleep.  Which is pretty much the only thing he’s been able to do.  Every time he’s here, she appears to be asleep.  He ponders if she’s ever going to be awake.  Maybe when she’s out of this room, no longer attached to as many machines, she’ll wake more.  In the meantime, he can watch, study her face, listen to her breathing.  Wait.  Her breathing.  It’s changed, since he walked in, now it’s the slow soft timbre of sleep, but moments ago it was sharper, the tension that comes with pain.  Hmm.  He’d wondered about how she was always, always, sleeping when he’s here.  Maybe she isn’t.  He doesn’t understand why she wouldn’t want to be awake for at least a little time with him, but then he’s never had experience with injuries like these so perhaps she’s just too tired from healing.  Perhaps she’s sufficiently comfortable with him being there that she doesn’t feel the need to pretend she’s okay around him.   That’s a good thought.  He sticks with it, happy with the solution he’s stumbled upon.  When she’s a bit better, he’ll tease her about it, call her Sleeping Beauty and watch her roll her eyes and try to maim him. 

While she’s resting, he writes more Nikki, narrative beginning to fall into order, story taking shape.  Eventually he leaves, considering stroking her hair, or her hand, a tiny, allowable gesture concealing his love, but prevents himself, nervous of either waking her or disturbing a machine he doesn’t understand.  Her breathing hasn’t changed at all, still the even cadence of deep sleep, her eyelids flickering in REM dreams.  She’s barely moved.

On the way out he snags a nurse he vaguely recognises as one of those whom he’s seen in Kate’s room (for an instant he thinks _cell_ ) and asks about the endless sleeping, is reassured when she says that Kate’s asleep most of the time still, and that’s perfectly normal.  She isn’t waking for others either, even her dad is only getting a minute or two before she falls away again.  A little niggle that he hadn’t even fully realised he’d had – that she was hiding only from him – dissolves and he returns to his loft, to eat and then go to the study to write. 

His letters to Kate are becoming his therapy: a stream of consciousness where he can pour out all his feelings: the love, the pain, the stray flashes of humour and the dark morbidity.  She’ll never see them, so he can be absolutely truthful.  But still, the story writer in him means that they’re written for an audience, even if it’s only him.

_Dear Kate,_

_Or should I say – Sleeping Beauty?  Probably not where you can hear me, though it’s such a tempting thought: you’ll growl (I love it when you growl) and roll your eyes and probably try to twist my ear.  Maybe I should just say it anyway and watch the animation rise in your face.  I’d better wait until you’re awake; it won’t be any fun to say it while you’re asleep._

_You’re asleep so much, still.  I was worried, till the nurses told me it’s normal. (your dad told them they could talk to me, gave them permission.  No-one’s breaching confidentiality.)  I could look at you in bed for ever, but it would be really nice to be able to see your eyes, and your reactions, when I do.  And I have to tell you that the tubes and wires and machines around you and the bed are not very sexy, though I_ deeply _appreciate what they’re doing for you.  I still have flashbacks to that moment when you were shot, the occasional nightmare where I wake up shouting for you.  It’s getting better, and the more time I spend with you the less it happens.  It’s why I’m happy just to sit and watch you sleep.  I suppose I need some healing as well, and something as simple, as banal, as being in your room while you sleep is working for me._

 _It’s certainly cheaper than therapy.  And prettier.  I always have this image of therapists as being Dr Phil, who could never be described as_ pretty _, and I certainly don’t want to kiss him. (the moustache would tickle, for a start)  I probably shouldn’t say this (but you won’t read this, so I’m safe) but ever since the beginning I’ve dreamed about kissing you (and sometimes – who am I kidding, often - rather a lot more) and since I actually did kiss you in that alleyway I can barely_ stop _thinking of it.  It was amazing.  You’re amazing.  Not just the karate kicking, either. Do you think about it too?  Sometimes when I’ve seen a certain look in your eyes I think you might.  I hope you do, because someday soon I want to do it again, and again, and again.  I want to have the right to kiss you, to be with you: as  I said before, to stand with you, wherever you make your stand._

_You’ll be out of ICU very soon, far fewer tubes, though pain relief will no doubt continue for a while.  I don’t like to think of how much pain you might be in: anaesthetic is – along with antibiotics – a great invention.  If it wasn’t for those, and the machines, you’d be dead.  But you’re not.  I have to keep telling myself that you’re not, seeing that you’re not.  It’s only been a few days since you so nearly were._

_Hell, that’s morbid.  I shouldn’t write that to you, it might upset you.  But it helps me, to write it down, get it out of my head.  You know I always write out the emotions that would otherwise stick in my brain.  Self-help therapy, in this case augmented just by sitting with you, seeing you alive, replacing nightmares with warm reality. (and electronic beeps – I like the beeps, their regularity, the statement in every sound that you’re alive).  And soon you’ll be awake for longer._

_I’ll see you tomorrow._

_Love, Rick._

He puts it in the drawer with the others, turns to his laptop.  Life is, finally, looking up.  Of course, there are still some small obstacles in the way.  Josh, (though he thinks that won’t be an obstacle for long) recovery time, maybe even getting over the trauma: she’ll likely need, want, therapy.  But that’s all okay, he’ll wait, as long as she’s there and they can be together through it.  She’s told him that he’s who she wants to make her stand with, in her words and in her gaze. 

It’s two weeks on, and now he’s hardly dreaming about it any more.


	4. A time to cast away

They’re moving her out of ICU today, they’ve told her.  More of the tubes and wires removed, only one precautionary IV line.  She’ll be able to drink, eat, control the pain relief.  No more antibiotics, so her stomach should settle down almost immediately.  She’s doing really well, they tell her, they’re so impressed with how fast she’s healing, she must have been really fit, healthy, before the incident.  _Incident_.  Well, that’s one way to refer to being shot in the chest and dying twice.  She might have called it something else.  She’d made them tell her all the truth, in cold clear unemotional words that she could understand, no hiding behind the medical jargon, and if they’d not explained it fully under her strict interrogation she’d wrenched the knowledge out of Lanie.  So now she knows everything, how she’d died twice, to match with remembering everything.  She’s been incredibly lucky to survive it, they all tell her, lucky just to be alive.  It’s difficult, sometimes, to feel properly grateful for it.

When they move her into a plush private room, she’s incredibly appreciative, and not a little surprised, that the NYPD’s health policy is that good.  Okay, she’d been shot in the line, but still, this is rather better than she’d thought was on offer, from what she remembers of the bullpen gossip (it’s not something they often like to talk about, for obvious reasons).  Still, she’s not going to complain.  If this is what the NYPD can run to, she’ll certainly take it.  She vaguely remembers that she’ll stay on full pay till she’s capable of returning - she doesn’t contemplate any other outcome - so she doesn’t need to worry about rent or any other bills.

She relaxes back into the bed – the move has tired her, which she _doesn’t_ appreciate: she didn’t have to do anything except lie there while they shifted her around and she’s still wrung out by it – and lets the nurses do whatever they have to do.  She can’t see the wall for the flowers on the nightstand, seems like four separate arrangements.  That’ll be Lanie, the boys, the precinct, and the largest one is undoubtedly Castle: beautifully tasteful and expensive, exactly the arrangement she’d pick herself if she didn’t need to worry about cost.  She doesn’t want to look at it. It makes her think of Castle, and then instead of happiness she thinks of the cemetery, and pain, and screaming.  She turns away from all the flowers, all their beauty spoiled.  She can’t ask for them to be taken away, that would be ungrateful and unkind, but in the privacy of her mind now she almost wishes none of them had bothered.  But that’s selfish, and she doesn’t want to be a selfish woman.  Bad enough to be an invalid, without that.

Visiting hours are much longer, now she’s out of ICU, the nurses tell her, obviously expecting that she’ll enjoy that.  She’ll be more awake, now they’ve reduced the drugs dosage to a much lower level, but if she needs more painkillers she only has to press this button to self-medicate.  It’ll be nice for her to be awake and able to talk to her visitors, won’t it?  She’s not so sure.  Ever since she was small, she’s preferred to hurt alone, run off to some quiet corner and self-soothe, come back when she’s dealt with it and her momentary weakness is gone.  It’s impossible to do that, chained to a hospital bed by tubes and wires, and she hates it.  She can’t stop the visitors, that too would be unkind, selfish and ungrateful: she can’t even restrict them, for the same reasons.  She has to deal with it, with their unwanted, unwarranted sympathy. 

And there’s the crux that she’s been sleeping to avoid.  She blames herself for this: if she hadn’t reopened her mother’s case, she wouldn’t be here, and others wouldn’t have been dragged in.  Montgomery wouldn’t be dead, his wife a widow, his children fatherless.  Her fault.  Guilt eats into her, and she winces.  Not just Montgomery.  It could so easily have been Castle shot, if he’d moved faster, knocked her out the way like he’d tried to.  Then what?  Martha deprived of a son, Alexis of a father.  It’s not Castle’s place to be protecting her, she’s the cop.  More guilt, that she put him at risk.  He shouldn’t be at risk, he needs to be safe.  She can’t bear the thought that he might be injured.  She forces her mind away from _killed_.

Her first visitor isn’t who she expected, but then, it’s not visiting hours.  She’d expected her father, or Castle.  Which is not the same as wanting either of them, or indeed anyone else.  She wants some time to be used to her new surroundings, to adjust to the lower level of pain relief, to work out how long she can stand it before she has to press the button.  Instead, it’s Josh. 

“Hey, Kate.  Good to see you out of ICU.”

“Hey,” she murmurs, all she can manage.  He’s looking at her with an assessing, professional eye, first of all, which dissolves into affection once he’s satisfied with what he sees.  Abruptly she realises that he’s far more into her than she is to him, which is to say – half-heartedly at best.  But then, she knew that, even if she didn’t admit it.  She was, unwittingly, using him: affection, comfort on a cold night, half out the door.  An excuse to ignore her true feelings.  She knows, now, what she has to do, anyway, knew it after the airplane hangar.  She just hadn’t had time, before...

Anyway.  Whatever he feels, she’s not going to be giving him what he’d want, can’t give him it.  Not fair, to string him along, pretending there’s more to it when there’s not.  But she’s really too tired from the transfer to do this now.  Tomorrow, or the next time he comes by when she’s awake. 

“I thought,” he says, smiling, “that once you’re released, we could maybe take a trip somewhere, spend some time together?”

Okay, so here and now, before he starts to plan, to think that she’ll be there with him, after all this is done. But she doesn’t want to do this now, resents that he’s forcing the issue when she’s barely capable of movement.

“Josh,” she hesitates, and sees the first glimmer of realisation creep across his face, “I don’t think so.”

“Kate,” he says, still confident, “Why not?  Sun and relaxation would be a good way to finish recovering.  Is it just that you’re worried about not being well enough?  I’ll make sure you don’t do too much.  I think I’m qualified to do that.”  He grins, pleased with his humour.  But she’s already shaking her head, slowly, the weight on her neck too heavy.

“No.  It’s not just that.  I can’t, Josh.  It’s not about you, it’s about me.”  Cliché of the century, that one, even if it’s true.  He’s a good guy, but she can’t do it any more.  She’d like to let him down gently – he saved her life, after all, which is something not every boyfriend could do (Castle did it too, says a voice in the back of her head, several times over) – but he’s, it’s, being with him is not enough.  She should have done this a long time ago, after the alleyway, certainly after she went to LA, but it kept her safe from making choices; meant she could ignore Castle’s ill-concealed feelings and hopes.  As well as her own.  And she’s never been unfaithful to Josh.  At least physically: that kiss was just a ruse to save the boys, not even her idea.  However much it had flared into flashpoint.  Faithfulness in mind or emotion?  Well, that might be a different matter.  Shame creeps over her.  Her dreams have never been of Josh.

He gives her another assessing, piercing look, affection falling away, replaced by realisation.  “Is it about you, Kate?  Or is it about your _partner_?”  There’s viciousness behind the word.  She’d known Josh wasn’t keen on Castle, their work together, the amount of time they spent together, but this vitriol is new.  She’s too tired for this fight, but it seems like it’s going to happen anyway.

“It’s obvious that you won’t commit because of him.  It might as well have been a series of one-night-stands with me.  You might tell yourself you’re not in a relationship with him but as long as he’s following you around like a puppy you won’t be in a relationship with anyone else either.  You’ve got him on a string and he’s so pathetically in love with you that he doesn’t even care when you’re with someone else.  But you’re not actually with someone else, because you’re always with him.  I can’t compete with that, Kate.  I can’t compete with him, because he’s always there with you, even when he isn’t.  Do you even know you dream about him?  You might have been with me but that’s not where you really wanted to be.  Just remember that it’s his fault you were shot, prying into your work, interfering with police cases, pretending he’s a cop.  He isn’t.  He nearly got you killed, but I saved you, and none of that seems to mean anything to you.” 

She doesn’t feel enough for Josh, suddenly, to be careful of how he feels, and anger at his words overcomes exhaustion.  “It wasn’t Castle’s fault I was shot, Josh.  That’s on the shooter.  And you may have saved me this time, but Castle’s saved my life before, so I think the pair of you are even, far as that goes.  Saving me doesn’t give you the right to my life.  I’m very thankful that you did, but that’s no foundation for a relationship.  As for everything else you’ve just said, I’d like you to leave now.”  She realises that all the wounds are beginning to hurt again, or maybe that’s her heart.  She looks straight at him.  “You may say I wasn’t committed. I don’t think you were either.  Your work means more to you than I did, but I didn’t really object, because turnabout’s fair play, Josh, mine means more to me than you.  We should never have started, but now we’re done.  Good luck.” 

She watches him search for words, find none.  Not soon enough, he leaves.  She rests back with her eyes shut and doesn’t shed a single tear.  But his words eat into her and add to her guilt and shame that she can just watch her ex-boyfriend walk away and not care.  She should care, should be bitten by the acid truth in his words, but it’s only what she already understood: long before she’d admitted her own feelings to herself her partnership with Castle had become the mainstay of her life.

Her wounds hurt, but she doesn’t press the button, accepts the pain as atonement, until, long past the time when she should have sought relief, she can’t bear it any longer and admits defeat.  The pain relief knocks her out in moments.  She’s been so lost in the guilt that she doesn’t realise that she’s taken it immediately before visiting hours begin.

When she wakes, her father’s been by, left her a note and more flowers.  She persuades the nurse to rearrange the bouquets on the nightstand, so that Castle’s arrangement is towards the back, partially shielded by everything else.  It makes sense that the tallest arrangement is at the back, doesn’t it?  And if she doesn’t raise her eyes too far, she doesn’t see it, isn’t reminded of the flowers by Montgomery’s coffin, isn’t reminded of that day.

Lanie comes by, a little later.  She also runs that diagnostic medic’s gaze over Kate, but this one includes true concern. 

“You getting better, girl?”

“Think so.”

“Well, you make sure so.  No ignoring the pain relief because you think it’s weak to need it.” – Kate makes a very small face at her – “I know you, you don’t take so much as a Tylenol unless you’re half-dead…” Lanie trails off, embarrassment blooming in her cheeks.

“ ‘S okay, Lanie.”

“You have to take it when you need it, not hours later.  Do what the doctors tell you, if you wanna mend fastest.  You dreaming?”  That’s whipped out.

“No.”  It’s true.  She hasn’t had any dreams, all blocked by the painkillers.  She doesn’t mention the flashback she’d had.

“Hmm.  You might start to, now the drugs are reduced.  Don’t try to deal with it all yourself, girlfriend, find someone to talk to.  Writer-Boy’s been here every day.”

Right.  Message received, loud and clear, Lanie. 

“He’ll be happy you’re awake: he’s spent every hour he’s allowed to watching you sleep.”  More pressure on her, more guilt.  She can’t be enough for this devotion.  Wounds in her flesh to match the wounds in her soul, diminishing her in every way that matters, strength, fitness, health, mind.

She can’t tell Lanie that she doesn’t want to see Castle.  Lanie wouldn’t understand.  Likewise, Lanie won’t understand that she doesn’t want to see anyone, except maybe her dad.  Ungrateful, not to want to see everyone.  She yawns, not making an effort to hide her weary face.

“Time you were asleep again, girl.  One of us’ll be round to see you tomorrow.  You behave now.  Painkiller as often you need it, and if you start to dream about it, you talk to someone.”

“ ‘Kay.”  She’s already halfway unconscious.

On the way in, Castle meets Lanie.  He’s been avoiding them all, not willing to face their accusing glares that he didn’t stop Kate, didn’t save her from the sniper.  His unhappy, guilty glance at her tells Lanie everything she needs to know.  A small intervention seems in order.

“Hey Castle, how’s it going?  Haven’t seen you for a while.  Come’n have a coffee, I’ve got a few minutes till I have to get back to the morgue.”

Castle ums and ahs and can’t make up a good excuse fast enough.  He doesn’t want to be subjected to Lanie’s accusations, or her interrogative techniques: if she hadn’t been an M.E. she’d have done just fine as a detective.  He follows Lanie to the hospital canteen and waits while she extracts two cups of something that looks like coffee but smells like embalming fluid – and when he takes a tentative, suspicious sip tastes worse: worse than from the original machine at the Twelfth; how is that even _possible? –_ then follows her to a table.

“We’ve missed you, Castle.”  What?  Missed him?  He’d thought they’d be only too pleased not to have him around distracting them.  Or reminding them of what’s gone wrong.  But they’ve _missed_ him?

“Really?” he says pathetically, miserably.  He’s astonished that they still want to know him.

“Really really.  We all saw you trying to save Kate.” Lanie doesn’t mention that they all heard him, too.  Probably along with most of Manhattan.  “You did everything you could.  Not your fault you couldn’t stop her.  No-one’s been able to stop Kate Beckett doing anything since she was nineteen, not even her father.  You’ve come closest to it.  We know what you did in that aircraft hangar.” 

He cringes, remembering carrying Kate away as she fought and begged him not to, holding her against the car to stop her going back into the fire fight, hand over her mouth to keep them from being heard, using the disparity in their physical size to control her actions in a way he’d never needed to, dared to, before, to save her.  And in some small corner of his traitorous mind, not quite submerged in the terror of the situation, wishing that he was pressing her between the car and his body in a very different context, that it wasn’t his _hand_ over her mouth.

“Castle!”  Lanie’s New York twang has acquired a serious bite.  He sits up straight and pays attention.  “Castle.  No-one blames you for what happened.  So it’s time to snap out of it. Stop beating yourself up.  Git yo’ head out yo’ ass, boy.”  Lanie putting on the street accent makes him laugh, short and bitter and chopped off, but a laugh nonetheless.  Suddenly he feels better about seeing her, feels that he can face the boys without guilt or remorse.

“How about I meet you all after visiting time is over?  If we go to the Old Haunt, drinks are on me.”

“Writer-Boy, drinks are _always_ on you at the Old Haunt.”


	5. The road is long

Castle’s disappointed that Kate’s still asleep, and that Lanie didn’t warn him.  Still, he’s been comforted by Lanie’s abrasive intervention techniques.  He flips open the laptop and begins to type, constructing an episode involving a sassy M.E. and some straight talking. He’s not sure where, or if, it will fit in yet, but he’ll work that out later.  Nothing’s wasted, when he writes, snippets that don’t fit filed away for later, or other books.  Every few words he looks over, hoping that her eyes will open. But her breathing doesn’t change and her eyes don’t open.  It’s almost the end of visiting hours when he hears a change in the cadence and turns away from the screen, hoping to see her awake. 

She’s not.  But her head is twisting on the pillow, and her fingers contorting on the sheet. Just as he’s about to rush out, summon a nurse, anyone, her breathing relaxes again and her hands loosen.  That’s reassuring.  Though the moments before were not: that looked almost like a brief nightmare.  When the nurse comes in to shoo him out he tells her about it, but she simply says that it’s to be expected, that it would be surprising if there weren’t vivid dreams.  If she’s awake, he’ll ask Kate about it tomorrow.

_Dear Kate,_

_Lanie ran into me today.  I’ve been avoiding them all, because I thought they’d blame me for not saving you.  Instead they’ve missed me.  Lanie staged one of her patent ambushes. I think I’d rather be charged by an elephant.  For a small woman, she sure does pack some heat. (How about that for the next title: Packing Heat?) Anyway, they still want to see me.  I can’t tell you how relieved that makes me.  If they blamed me and didn’t want to see me, then how could I see you?  They’re your family, in every way, and I couldn’t come between you and your family._

_We went to the Old Haunt.  Well, the drinks are free, and boy oh boy can our friends drink.  Espo will not be enjoying tomorrow, and Ryan was poured into a cab.  His legs didn’t seem to work.  Lanie was absolutely fine.  I don’t know if she just drank less, or she has the capacity of a small ocean.  On balance, probably the second.  I didn’t have much.  Too distracted by the Kate-sized space in the booth.  We all noticed it, and toasted your recovery.  I’d rather you’d been there, even if you’d only drunk water._

_Maybe when you’re out of hospital, we’ll go.  There’s a nice set of darker booths at the back, suitable for many things: drinking, flirting, making out....Though I have the downstairs office, which is private, and lockable.  I shouldn’t be thinking like that, should I?  But I can’t help it: I remember that kiss.  You’re getting better, and...and I can’t help hoping that everything is going to change for the better._

_I’ve come to see you every day.  I don’t know if it’s registered even though you’re asleep. I hope you liked the flowers. Today when I came, though, it looked like you had a nightmare.  Only briefly, but still, I hope it wasn’t.  You still need to sleep, and rest, and mend, and I don’t think that nightmares will help.  Maybe you’ll tell me about it tomorrow, and then that’ll make it better.  I want to do something that will help you get better, even if it’s listening to your bad dreams._

_Till tomorrow, with hope for us._

_Love Rick_

* * *

 

Kate wakes at a time which is almost normal, and when the nurse comes to change the dressings she’s sufficiently awake to start asking about the next steps.  She doesn’t like the answers.  Approximately another week of bed rest (more if she does anything that will set her recovery back), then the slow start to many weeks of physical therapy.  She’ll be very lucky to be back at work within three months of the _incident_ , and she should expect desk work for a while if she is.  And in between, the suggestion that in these cases there is very often a mental component: the trauma can – probably will - cause PTSD, and it’s advisable, the nurse says, to consider therapy.  If she has flashbacks, or nightmares, or both, she _should_ have therapy. 

She doesn’t want to think about that length of time stretching out before her, and in the shock of the bad news about the length of physical therapy, she doesn’t really register the information about PTSD.  Instead, she focuses on a single small thing to make herself feel better that might, with luck, actually be achievable.

“Can I get my hair washed?”  The nurse looks at her, an understanding smile breaking through the cool professionalism.

“Sure you can. Just say when, and we’ll get someone around for you.”

Kate looks at her hopefully. “How about right now?”  And amazingly, an orderly appears in short order.  It’s awkward and painful and not at all like being at the salon or washing it herself, but at least when it’s done she feels clean and one, very small, step closer to being Beckett again, even if it’s dried rather more curly than she likes.  Though she supposes she’s lucky they didn’t cut it.  She’s spent all this time growing it out, it would be a shame if she had to start again.  And it’s not her familiar shampoo either.  But if she can get her hair washed, then Lanie or her dad will bring her the usual brand.  She carefully doesn’t think that Castle would be only too happy to supply an entire drugstore’s worth of any brand she likes.  She goes back to considering relative trivialities, like shampoo,  to avoid thinking about the details of the recovery program the nurse gave her, or anything else difficult.  Like how much she wants Castle there, and how much it hurts that when he is she remembers the _incident_.  But even having her hair washed, with no effort on her part except to be propped up and turn her head a little, leaves her stretched thin with tiredness.  It depresses her, to be so dependent and needy. 

She thinks bitterly that she’ll really know she’s getting better when she can get up to go to the bathroom.  But that won’t be today.  Somehow the small indignities are the worst: the massive medical interventions were so large that she can’t comprehend them.  At least her hair is finally clean.  Strangely, that makes her feel much better than she would have expected.  When visiting hours start, she’s almost human.

Esposito is the first to come by, looking at her with the same sort of cautious respect that she expects he used to his wounded military brethren, back in the day.  What she doesn’t detect in his eye is pity.  Understanding, yes, empathy, yes, pity, definitely not.  And somehow he understands that what she needs is not sympathy but the bracing backchat of cops: everything understood.

“Yo, Beckett, whatcha doing lying there?  Need ya back at work, not lying on your ass.”  It’s so perfectly Espo, she’s instantly on her game.

“What’re you saying?  Can’t you do without me for two weeks?  What sort of a cop are you, anyway?”  Esposito quirks the corner of his mouth.

“Two weeks, Beckett?  It’s been three already.  Vacation’s nearly over.”  He grins.  “Just glad to see you awake.  Can’t be good, to sleep that much.  Must be nearly time to start physical therapy.”  The grin gets evil.  “Betcha your stats are worse than mine now.  Betcha they’re worse than Ryan’s.”

Beckett – she’s very much Beckett in the familiar joshing atmosphere – flips him the bird.  “You try doing your physical when you’re full of plastic tubes and we’ll see how you do.  And when I’m back I’ll beat the pants off you.”

“No way.  And I’ll still outshoot you any day of the week.”  Espo suddenly really, really wishes he hadn’t said that.  Beckett’s abruptly lost all colour.  “Hey, Beckett, wanna hear about the new Captain, Gates?  She’s got balls of steel.  They call her Iron Gates, and man it suits her.  She is one hard ass.  Worse than you, and I never thought that was possible.  She’d scare a Marine sergeant, easy.  Ryan nearly went home crying when she started in on him.  He’s a wuss.”  It doesn’t seem to be improving Beckett’s view of the world.  An orderly bustles in and Espo takes the chance to leave before he makes matters even worse.  He doesn’t know quite why the chat about Gates should have upset Beckett so badly: it was hardly her fault that Montgomery was a corrupt cop.

She’d been doing so well, with Esposito, relieving all his initial concern with banter and snark, until he’d inadvertently reminded her that he had been a sniper, and she’d lost it in microsecond flashback of the shot.  And then he’d reminded her that Montgomery was gone and the guilt had drowned her again, and she’d made him worried again.  She doesn’t notice the orderly changing her dressings, her soft thank you automatic and unthinking as she flops back into the sheets, all her earlier spark snuffed out. 

She’s just about recovered composure when Castle arrives, so clearly delighted to see her awake that she has trouble maintaining a smooth face.  She can’t deal with his emotions.  She’s having a hard enough time coping with her own.

“Kate!  You’re awake!”  He’s so horribly enthusiastic, and she can’t rise to the occasion.

“Yeah,” she says slowly.  “Espo was just here.”  She manufactures a smile, hopes it doesn’t look as forced as it feels.  He’s looking at her as if she’s made of crystal, beautiful, brilliant – and utterly brittle and breakable.  She doesn’t want to be reminded of her weakness, and it’s written all over his face how different she is from before.  Tension begins to slither poisonously through the air.

“Is there anything you need, Kate?”  She gets some game together, to hide her feelings, take the concern away from him.  She’s still so very good at hiding.

“Hmm.  Let me see.  Chocolate – oh no, not allowed that.  Coffee – not allowed that either.  Alcohol – nope.  It’s really boring here.  I’m not allowed anything except hospital food and morphine.  I really wouldn’t recommend this as a vacation resort, Castle,”  she says dryly.  Oh.  Saying that was a mistake.  Castle looks as if someone punched him.  Hell.  She’s trying to alleviate everyone’s upset, not add more.  But then he pulls on his own game face.

“So, what does that leave? I could bring you a book.”  She hears the effort behind the words, and matches it.

“As long as it’s by Patterson.”  There’s a growl.

“Why Patterson?  What about my books?”

“Well, he’s written three new ones that I haven’t read and you’re still working on Nikki Heat 3.  Haven’t you got a title yet?  Don’t you think you should write a little faster?”

“Difficult when my muse won’t co-operate”  - he stops and looks stricken.  “I didn’t mean that the way it came out.”  She’s perfectly poker faced, but inside her chest there’s an icicle.  She can hardly be the inspiration for Nikki Heat, tethered to the hospital bed, not even started on the weeks and months of physical rehabilitation ahead. 

“Kate?”

“Will you bring me some books, when you come next?  I need to take some pain relief, and it knocks me out.  Can’t be that interesting, watching me sleep.”  Now, she only wants him to go.  His unthinking words have pierced her, reminding her that she’s damaged.

She sees Castle manufacturing a forced smile of his own. “Sure.  I’ll bring them tomorrow.”  He walks closer to the bed, the smile turning real, and carefully, gently, as if at any moment she’ll shatter into fragments, pats her fingers.  “I’m so glad you’ve woken up.  Till tomorrow, Kate.” 

When he’s safely out the door she presses the button for pain relief to soothe the physical hurt – she should have taken it a while ago, really – and wishes there was some similar button to deal with the emotional pain.  Her last thought before she loses consciousness is that she won’t be bad-ass Nikki Heat anytime soon.

Castle knows he mis-stepped.  He hasn’t watched her for three years without knowing every twitch, and he’d seen his careless words stab into her.  It hadn’t been a very subtle hint to leave, either.  But she’s asked him to bring her books, and not objected that he’s coming back tomorrow, so maybe it’s not so bad.  She really needed the painkillers, too, he’d seen lines furrowing into her forehead and the tightness around her eyes.  Perhaps tomorrow he’ll get a chance to make it better.  Perhaps he should ask her about the nightmares, show concern, not pretend to be brave and make jokes that don’t work, be supportive.

_Dear Kate,_

_I’m sorry I was so crass.  I didn’t mean that you weren’t still the inspiration for Nikki, of course you are: how could you not be?  I don’t know what I meant, except – well, not except, nothing that’s anything printable.  I didn’t mean to hurt you, but I know I did.  I know every flicker of your expression, even when you think you’re perfectly polished smooth.  I’m not surprised you suggested I should go, I’m just surprised you were okay that I’ll come back tomorrow.  I’ll be more careful of you then. You just look so fragile still, and it pierces my heart.   I’m scared to touch you, in case I break something.  All I want to do is protect you, keep you safe, until you’re better._

_All I wanted to do when I saw you awake was tell you how much I love you, and I couldn’t get that right. Even awake, you looked so frail, and I thought it would be too much to land on you, this soon.  I wasn’t going to duck it any more, and then I did.  All the words I could write, and I can’t make them come out of my mouth correctly.  Three little words, and I can’t say them correctly._

_Love, Rick_

He puts the pen down, his head in his hands.  He’s mishandled it so badly, today when for the first time she was awake.  He’d been trying so hard not to blurt out all his feelings, not to drown her in the tsunami of emotion that swamped him when he saw her eyes open and personality alive. He hopes he hid his worry for her, but she seems so diminished and defeated, white pallor against white hospital sheets, and every time he sees the bulk of the dressings he thinks of the raw wounds, red and weeping, beneath.  He wants to keep her safe and close against him, heal her wounds and chase away the pain, and he hasn’t the faintest idea how to begin to make that clear. 

He won’t be writing Nikki tonight.  He needs to work out something far more fundamental, what he can do that would be best for Kate.  How to make it better.  Start by doing what she asked him, taking her some books.  She’ll certainly be snarky if he doesn’t do that.  He calls Lanie, asks her to meet him at Kate’s apartment (Lanie has a key; he doesn’t) so that he can pick her up some books.  He reckons he can guess what she’d like to read.  Maybe she’d like some other stuff, too?  He ponders, subsuming his unhappiness into the more productive channels of thinking about what Kate would like, need, want.

In Kate’s apartment, which he last saw on the night of their most recent shattering argument, before Montgomery was shot, before he saved her, before she was shot, before he let her die, there’s a reasonable degree of mess: not very Kate-like, but then there had been other things to worry about in those short days between Montgomery’s death and his funeral, and he’s not sure Kate had been home for more than a few hours in total in all that time.  He agrees with Lanie that if he arranges for a reputable cleaning service, she’ll arrange for them to get in: it seems to both of them that Kate would prefer to come back to a clean, tidy, normal space.  When she comes back.  And now it will be _when_ : when she’s discharged from the hospital.

He raids her bookshelves, an eclectic mix of mystery novels, door stopping Russian classics, and some light and fluffy romances that he just cannot make fit, however hard he tries, with his picture of kick-ass Beckett, for whom cynicism is an art form and the smart remark to puncture any hint of sappiness perfected.  Further thought suggests that Kate might prefer her own nightwear to the hospital gowns, but a brief knife of common sense cuts through the fog that comes from musing about Kate’s nightwear, preferably with Kate in it and in a bed somewhere close to him, and he asks Lanie to select some things, staying well out the way as she does.  It nearly kills him.  He’d love to know what Kate wears to bed.  He’d never had a chance to see, when she stayed at the loft.  But he won’t give her an excuse to think that he’s pried into her underwear drawer when she couldn’t stop him.  No fun, if she doesn’t have the chance to stop him.  Or give him permission.

One last thing, while he waits for Lanie.  When he’d touched her hand in farewell, her skin was dry, and her room doesn’t smell of Kate, of cherries, but of antiseptic and dressings, the faint undertone of blood and bodily fluids.  She’d like, he thinks, her hair and body products: maybe her make-up as well?  It seems such a small thing, so trivial, but Lanie gives him a _well-done_ smile and tells him that often it’s these seemingly small things that make people feel better, more themselves.


	6. The cracks are already beginning to show

And so it proves.  When Castle shows up the following day, laden down with all the items he and Lanie had selected, Kate is genuinely, completely, pleased.  He’d go as far as to say -   _delighted_.  She’s so much like she used to be he forgets about his need to take care of her and baits her like he would any given day at the precinct.

“So, Beckett,” she looks up from the books that she’s smoothing her hand over, clearly trying to work out which one she wants first, “do I get to see the nightwear?”

“What, Castle, you mean you didn’t already?  How’d it get here, if you weren’t taking the opportunity to rifle through my underwear drawer?”  There’s a very familiar, welcome, Beckett glare aimed right between his eyes.  He grins, all concern razed by the glare, comfortably happy that he’s in the right.

“I didn’t.”  She looks utterly disbelieving, the glint in her eye boring into him.

“You expect me to believe that you _didn’t_?” Ah, there’s Interrogative Beckett back in business.  She could be sitting in the precinct, ripping truth out of a suspect.  He loves seeing her at full force, and here’s an only marginally diluted version.

“You can believe what you like.  But I’ve got a witness that says I didn’t.”  He smirks, deliberately annoying.  The expression on Beckett’s face (and suddenly she is Beckett, all snarky and smart and snappy) is worth it.  He relents, mainly because one of the fluffy novels is suddenly in her hand and while he’s fairly sure she doesn’t have the strength to throw it at him he isn’t willing to take either the chance that she does, or that she’ll hurt herself trying.  “Lanie got it for you.  I didn’t even peek.”  The smirk widens.  “Wanna show me it now?”

“No.”  She’s smiling, though.  Oh well, worth a try.

“You could always model it for me later.”  And suddenly all the fun and flirtation has fallen out of the air.  Beckett has flipped back into Kate, white and silent and unhappy, and he hasn’t the slightest idea what he’s said or done to provoke it.

“I don’t think so.”  It’s flat and unemotional: not her normal play-the-game, provocative tone whenever he starts to flirt, that leaves him wildly wanting her.  The veil’s come down behind her eyes, and she’s staring at the books as if they’ll rescue her from this room.  From him.

Kate’s temporary surge of Beckett-ness has all disintegrated on the knowledge that, whatever Lanie’s picked out for her it won’t hide the bullet hole, or all of the surgical scar: harsh reminders of her physical damage.  She’s sure that it won’t be anything modest or demure, hospital notwithstanding: Lanie will have picked something which she thinks that Castle would approve of, or indeed enjoy, still matchmaking despite all previous failures.  Hardly an attractive sight, either of her wounds.  She doesn’t want him to see them: doesn’t want him to know about the imperfections.  He’s made it so clear, previously, how much he’d like to appreciate her body, and yes, once or twice she’s played on that by undoing an extra button to yank his chain: the arrested, hungry look in his eyes each time she did it its own reward.   But it’s not likely to be happening again.  The bullet hole makes her feel ugly, however unreasonable that may be, and he’s never been with anyone who isn’t physically pretty perfect. 

She knows, intellectually, she’s not being fair, she’s being ridiculous, that Castle’s not anything like that shallow, now – back at the beginning, well, that might have been different, but that time’s long past.  He and Lanie have taken some trouble to bring her things she’ll like and appreciate, and she’s being wholly over-sensitive to the effect of her injuries, to comments and happenings that are meant to cheer her up.  But it’s the little things that are catching her on the raw, sharp fangs of memory biting at her emotions.  Right now, she’s got far more emotions than intellect, and all of them dejected. But she mustn’t slide into selfishness.

It doesn’t help her mood that she hasn’t mentioned to anyone that she remembers every instant.  It doesn’t help that she can’t believe that Castle can still love her when she’s broken in body and spirit.  He fell in love with a kick-ass, high-flying New York cop, not a broken-winged wreck, Icarus after the fall.  She can’t face the possibility of the love she’d seen draining away as he realises she isn’t what she was, isn’t what he loves.  There’s enough pain in her life right now without inviting more in.  She won’t start something just for her own fulfilment, where the other person likely won’t be as content.

She’s been too quiet for too long.  Castle’s no longer looking at her as if she were normal, healthy, no longer teasing and playful and behaving as if nothing had happened, he’s full of pity and worry and upset, and it scrapes against her wounds.

“I brought your wash products, too,” he says hesitantly, trying to change the tone, failing.  “I thought maybe you’d prefer them to hospital soap.”

Kate pulls herself a little more together.  “Thanks.  That’s really…kind…of you.”  She’d almost said _sweet_ , but that’s too much of a connection to who she used to be.  “Maybe for tomorrow.”  She can feel the pain rising, pulling at her self-control, clawing under the dressings, knows she needs to accept another dose of relief.  As it builds, she can see it’s showing in her face, matched and mirrored by the rising concern in Castle’s, underlain by his hurt that she hurts.  She can’t stand causing this.

“Castle,” she forces out, not wanting to say this, prove how weak she is.  “Castle, I need to take the pain relief again.  Please will you,” she gestures feebly at all the objects on the bed, and fortunately he follows her thought and starts to pick them up, put them in the nightstand.

“Kate, you don’t need to be embarrassed about asking me for help.  I’m happy to: it’s not like you’re imposing on me.” 

She doesn’t want to have to ask for help.  She doesn’t want to need it.  She wants to be herself again, and instead she can’t even reach to put a book on a nightstand.  She hates the frustration caused by the dependency that she’s forced to suffer.  But she can’t find a way to articulate that which wouldn’t be utterly hurtful, so instead swallows the resentment that, shamefully, she feels in place of the gratitude she ought to have, adds that to the mountain of guilt she’s already carrying. 

“Is there anything else you want?”

“No.” The words are beginning to rasp.  “Thank you.  Just sleep.”  She hits the button and closes her eyes almost simultaneously.  She can’t take it any more, the pressure of his support not buoying her up but dragging her under.

Castle finishes tidying up around Kate, knowing she’s not yet asleep but respecting her need for what little privacy can be managed, when it’s impossible to do anything for yourself.  When he’s finished, he sits back on the chair in the corner and waits for the painkiller to kick in, to alleviate the scratching breaths.  She’s gone too long without it, tried to beat her body and only succeeded in hurting herself more.  Typical Kate, he thinks, with bitter amusement. Can’t even accept medical help till she’s at the end of her tether. 

* * *

 

_Dear Kate,_

_I don’t understand why you push yourself so hard to avoid the pain relief. It’s not weakness to take it, to admit you need its help.  I know you’ve relied on no-one but yourself for the whole of your adult life, but Kate, you nearly died.  You_ did _die, twice.  I think we’d all be less worried if you would just accept that the medical staff know what’s best for you in terms of taking the drugs.  We can all see your pain, and it’s upsetting us too.  It’s killing your dad. I know how he feels: if it were Alexis there I’d be just the same.  I’m only not the same because I know how tough you are, how much you can bear, and that first and foremost you are a survivor.  (another cliché from the writer.  Funny how, in situations like this, I sound like I’m writing a bad thriller.  I won’t be writing one of those any time soon: the current reality is quite enough.)  Please, just take the damn drugs when you need them._

_I don’t know what I did to upset you today.  One minute everything was pretty much normal – except that it was in the hospital, it could have been any day at the precinct – and you were getting all Beckett on my ass (yes please…oh please) and then suddenly it all dropped apart and you just closed up.  I don’t know what Lanie put in that bag, but I can’t imagine that you wouldn’t look stunning in it, even if it’s a Civil War era flannel nightie.  I’d love to see it. And remove it, slowly. But not in the hospital. Might scare the staff._

_Oh.  Is that what’s wrong?  You’re worried about the scars?  I never thought of that: never thought that you would care about that.  I certainly don’t.  It’s odd to think of you having any sort of vanity; any insecurity about the way you look.  You’re so beautiful, nothing could change that.  Nothing, no scar, could make you less than you are, less than you were, in my eyes.  I don’t know how to show you that, right now – well, I know at least one way, but I don’t think that kissing the dressings is approved hospital protocol and I can hardly strip them off now and kiss you there: weeping wounds are not hygienic, ugh - but later, there will be a way.  There will be many, many ways.  I’ll show you. You can show me, in return. It’ll be fun._

_I saw the flash of resentment in your eyes when you had to ask me to tidy up. I understand it.  You don’t have to hide it from me; I haven’t been beside you for three years without realising how little you like asking for help – that must be the winning candidate for the understatement of the week competition.  How little you like it?  You abhor it.  I can see how much you want not to need assistance.  I won’t be hurt if you say so, even if your words are clumsy.  But then, you’re not exactly big on talking, are you, so you probably won’t say anything.  Just don’t squash it all down, or you’ll drown in it._

_Find someone to talk to, maybe a professional who doesn’t know you.  It’s too much to hope that you’ll talk to any of us about it, because you won’t want to reveal yourself to us.  Though we’d be happy if you did, I understand why you won’t.  Not just that you don’t want to upset us, but that you won’t show any weakness.  It’s only you who thinks you’re weak, Kate.  The rest of us are in awe of your strength.  It’s just one of the reasons I love you._

_Till tomorrow, Kate._

_Love, Rick._

* * *

In her room, Kate is lying awake.  The drugs have worn off, the pain has receded almost to nothing, and in the comforting dark and silence of the small hours of the night she’s thinking.  She doesn’t feel as sharp as she ought to be, but some thinking seems indicated.  The last of the tubes and wires will be removed tomorrow, and she’s been told that she can start trying to move.  Such small things, to improve her mood – it’s silly, but she really, _really_ wants to be able to go to the bathroom alone.  One less indignity, one less weakness.  Surely now that she’s been disconnected – sounds like she’s part of a bad sci-fi movie, disconnected – she’ll progress quite quickly.  People can stop worrying about her.  She snuggles down, carefully, slowly, learning what will not strain the wounds.  Normal, undrugged sleep envelops her.

She wakes sweating and panicked, sure she’s screamed, but nobody’s running in.  She’s just re-run the whole funeral,  in high-definition 3-D with full surround sound, right up to and including the bullet piercing her chest and Castle’s face: terrified, agonised cries for her to hold on, to stay, _Kate I love you_.  It takes a long time for her pulse to slow and breath to ease, and she needs the drugs to shield her from the physical pain in her sternum caused by her frantic gasping for air as she woke. 

In the morning, she shrugs it off as a necessary component of recovery.  Lanie had warned her, after all.  This, too, shall pass.  She’s forgotten that Lanie told her that she needed to talk to someone, if she dreamed.  She hasn’t connected the nightmare and the micro-flashback.  She’s anxious to start the physical therapy, to be on the mend.  Not to need so much help, all of which she resents, all of which resentment makes her feel ungrateful and selfish.

After the first session, she’s back in her room, in the bed, face pressed into the pillow, trying not to cry.  She can’t do anything: can’t raise her arms beyond a few inches, can’t hold them out for more than a second or two, can’t stand without support, can’t walk.  And she hurts all over, again; she’s hopelessly exhausted, again.  She hadn’t thought that she’d be able to do much, but this is so very much less than she’d expected, than she’d hoped.  She’s utterly demoralised.  She looks down the path in front of her and sees that the trail to recovery is so much longer and steeper than she’d thought.  She plunges into sleep.

Her dad comes, in today’s visiting hours, and she manages to tell him a little of how she feels after the physiotherapist session.  It doesn’t make her feel any better, and the ill-concealed worry in his eyes initially makes her think there’s something he isn’t telling her about how well she’ll recover.  But when she taxes him with that uncomfortable thought there’s nothing to find out, he’s just worried for her generally.  Petulantly, she wishes he wouldn’t worry, or at least could hide it better.  Another unworthy, spoilt-brat thought: he only wants her to be better, of course he worries about his daughter.  She should be glad that he cares, that this hasn’t driven him back to the comfort of the bottle, but she can’t quite manage it.  Her own selfishness, her inability to be sincerely considerate, appals her.  She resolves, again, not to tell him about her difficulties, only to tell him the good parts of her progress, to remove the worry from him.

When Castle comes by, clearly having spoken to her father on the way, she decides the same, in this case augmented by the desire not to show weakness, not to show how much she needs him to comfort her, not to burden him with the obligation to support her.  Only today, when she looks at him, she flashes back to him kneeling over her in the cemetery, and for a moment she can’t breathe.

“What was that, Kate?”  Of course he’s spotted it.  She takes a mental gasp and lies.

“Hangover from the physio.”  The catch in her breath gives it verisimilitude.  “Pulls.”  He’s staring at her with concern.  She summons up some game.  “Stop staring.  ‘S creepy.”  And there’s his ordinary smile.  But she can still see that other expression, in the overlay of her flashback.  She can still see it when he leaves.


	7. Live and let die

The physio doesn’t get easier, but a week on she can take the few steps from the bed to the en-suite bathroom by herself, though it takes her more time than she’d like to be able to muster the strength to walk back.  Still, it’s measurable progress.  She can lift her arms for longer, too, though brushing her hair is a matter of one stroke, rest, one stroke, rest, slow lift of the hand not to tug on the stitches.  But that, too, is progress.  She’s forcing herself to go one step beyond what the physio requests, pushing herself as hard as she can, as she dares.  Every improvement is a step to reduce her dependency, every day she can move a little further will bring a reduction in everyone’s anxiety about her.  When she gets stronger, when she’s not a burden, then she might be able to tell Castle a little about how she feels.  But not now, not yet, not while she’s still dead weight.  Her word choice is not accidental.

The dressings still need changed every day, the wounds beneath still not sealed and the bullet hole still oozing fluid, but the orderlies, the nurses and the doctors seem to think that it’s all perfectly satisfactory.  She’s paying careful attention to what they do, how they change them, knowing that she will have to do this for herself when she’s discharged.  Physically, she’s noticeably better.

Mentally, she’s anything but.  She’s dreaming more and more often, the strain of the physical therapy bleeding over into the night.  Soon, she can barely look at Castle, still visiting daily: all she can see if she looks at his face; no matter how bouncy or worried or happy or concerned he is, whatever his mood; is him kneeling over her and the bullet.  She can’t separate the slam of the bullet and his pain then from his face now: because every time she looks into his eyes and sees his love, every time he touches her hand – still as if she’ll shatter if he applies anything except that featherlight touch - she sees his previous agony and feels him helplessly trying to staunch the blood.  Deep down, she resents him for taking her back to that vision, but every time she feels the sharp pang of resentment she feels a sharper bite of guilt because of it.  He saved her till the medics could get to her, so she shouldn’t resent him.  But the internal conflict is shattering her, she wants him there, she doesn’t want him there.   Because she still thinks that this is just a normal part of the healing she doesn’t mention any of it, even to Lanie.  She starts to think that she needs time alone, to recover from this ridiculous mood of resentment, to unpick how she feels and rebuild it back to normal.  A period of seclusion has always helped her to resolve matters in the past, so most likely it will serve her now.

And still it gets worse.  Any sharp noise is startling her, taking her back to the crack of the rifle shot, sending her into panic.  But she’d been warned, she remembers; not realising that she’d misunderstood the nurses; thinking to herself that this is a necessary component of recovery; and so she doesn’t realise that it’s far more than that, that she should be telling someone, that in fact she is some way into serious post-traumatic stress.  She just tries to get through it, as best she can.  It’ll peak, and then it’ll fade.  This, too, shall pass.  But she doesn’t want her friends, colleagues, to see it, it’s just another thing that would worry them.  So she doesn’t tell them, conceals it, limits how much she says.  She won’t selfishly, inconsiderately, worry them.  Gradually, she’s withdrawing from all of them, concealing everything behind quick sharp banter and how she’s improving physically, edgily humorous stories of small victories, minor setbacks, sardonic complaints about not being allowed coffee, or chocolate.  Nothing that could make anyone anxious about her, plenty that should relieve their fears.

And finally, one day, she can’t bear any of it, any of them, any more worry or concern in their eyes, any more pity, no matter how hard she tries to make their misgivings disappear:  just - any more.  She’s been pulling back for days now, from everyone, ever since the physio started to work on her, ever since she resolved not to worry any of them.  She gets a timeline from the doctors, a program she can do on her own once she’s released.  When her father comes, she shows him it, asks if, on release, she can go up to the cabin for a while, just take some time out of the city.  She asks him not to say anything, to anyone, till she’s decided about it.

She’s already decided.  All she needs is the medics to discharge her.  In the quiet of the woods around the cabin her mind will be eased and the nightmares disperse.  There won’t be anything to remind her of the trauma: it’ll be soothing, silent, serene.  And so will she be.  While she’s there, the last parts of her damage will heal, and when she comes back, she hopes that all will be well.  She’ll be most of the way to being kick-ass cop once more, even if she’ll never be Nikki again.  Still, she doesn’t want visitors: needs time completely alone to lick her wounds and discover who she is now, without her previous confidence in her body and her mind.  She needs time to recover that confidence, without the pressure of others’ expectations and wishes.  Truthfully, just as when she was a small child with grazed knees, she wants to be away from people. 

She doesn’t want to distress anyone, so she doesn’t tell a single person except her father what she’s planning.  They need to start getting back to normal, without the burden of visiting her, cheering her up, seeing in her injuries reminders of the risks they run.  It doesn’t occur to her that it’s no burden, that she means more to them than she’s ever believed, that they might want to know, might worry more if she goes without a word.

When Castle comes that day, he’s barely in the door before the flashback bites her.  But she’s covered it all so well with lies about the effects of the physical therapy that he doesn’t notice that she isn’t normal, doesn’t see the fear and panic as anything other than the pain from forcing herself through the exercises.  She can’t cope with the flashbacks, the resentment and the following guilt, the feeling of being a burden on his day, the knowledge that she isn’t Nikki.  She can’t cope with any of it any more, and she can’t tell him why, can’t show him the unpleasant truth about the dark patches in her psyche.  So when he says that they’ll talk tomorrow, asking about what she remembers, she lies, and then asks if he minds if they don’t.  She’ll call him, okay?

It nearly breaks her, to see the abrupt pain in his eyes.  Except she can’t deal with him, can’t separate his face from the trauma, the shot.  Every time she sees him it’s worse.  She wants to tell him she loves him, but the memory of him saying it hurts too much; she wants to touch him, but she only feels the pressure of him staunching blood when he touches her.  All she can see is him screaming her name, only able to say he loved her when she was already dying.   He hasn’t said it since, though it’s written in his eyes.

And she’s so weak, so feeble, so exhausted.  She’s not the woman he’s in love with, she’s a poor photocopy, blurred and smeared.  She’s neither physically or mentally capable of being who she was: in the hangover from the flashback she can’t currently imagine that she ever will be again.  She can’t bear to see him slowly realise, fall out of love with her.  She’s not his Nikki, his inspiration, his muse. She won’t hold him to her broken body and shattered personality, won’t selfishly, inconsiderately lean on him because she can’t stand alone, an oak to her parasitical ivy. 

When the door closes quietly, gently, behind his devastated figure, when she’s sure he won’t be able to hear, she turns her head into the pillow and cries until she’s drained.  She’s broken her own heart, right along with his.  But he’ll recover, realise that it’s for the best.  Cutting the ties now means he won’t come to resent her later, for not being the woman he thinks she is, that he wants her to be, that she used to be.

* * *

 

Castle doesn’t know how he got home.  All he knows is that now he’s in his study, laptop open, staring at a blank document.  He’s so deeply hurt he can barely think: tears biting behind his eyes, choking in his throat.  She’s sent him away, doesn’t want him there.  He’d seen the withdrawal in her face.  He’s been there every day for her, and she’s sent him away, rejected his concern and support.  She said she’d call him.  That isn’t good: he can’t find anything in what she said that’s good.  Surely even the independent Kate Beckett doesn’t think that she can heal herself alone.  She’s not that blind.  So, face it, Rick, she doesn’t want to see you.  The desk blurs around him.

Then he thinks that maybe she’s still with Josh.  Maybe she’s getting fully invested in that relationship, and pulling back from him.  He has to say, if he were Josh and she were his girlfriend he wouldn’t be spectacularly happy about her spending so much time in his, Castle’s, company, in the intense, charged, relationship they have: one where she’s matching mental wits (theory sex, he calls it, though never to her face) and right there in the game with him, more hours at the job than out of it and almost all of them with him beside her.  They’ve shared almost everything, in three years, he even knows her story, in a way that he is sure no-one else ever has.  Shared everything, except their bodies (not for want of him trying) and if that  alleyway kiss was anything to go by, if the way she looked at him from the podium was any guide, it really would have been amazing.  Except now she’s told him to go.

The way she’d looked at him from the podium.  That hadn’t looked like a woman about to get serious about a different man.  Quite the opposite: she’d looked like she meant him.  For a few minutes, hope had flowered – until the bright blood flowed.  But still, it hadn’t seemed at that moment that Josh was in her future.  Josh saved her life, though.  That could change a lot of views. Even changed his.

He can’t write Nikki, or Rook.  He picks up the fountain pen, the paper, blinks several times until he can see clearly again.

_Dear Kate,_

_I don’t understand._

_I don’t understand at all.  Why have you sent me away?  Why don’t you want to see me any more?  I can’t believe you’ve told me not to come back.  For once, I can’t think of anything I’ve done that would upset you, or annoy you. What have I done?_

_I had so many hopes for us, right up until this afternoon.  I thought I finally understood where you were standing; I thought we were moving forward at last.  I thought we had a chance._

_Seems I was wrong again. I never realised quite how much I loved you till you almost weren’t there.  It’s too late to do anything about it.  If you’d wanted to talk or to see me, you’d have let me stay.  I guess you never felt the same way._

_Maybe you didn’t hear me.  Perhaps that would be best anyway.  Maybe if you didn’t hear me I can still hope that you’ll feel the same as I do.  I don’t really believe you didn’t hear me, but it’s all I have to cling to._

He stops, puts down the pen, blinks some more. 

_I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.  I’m sorry I didn’t move fast enough.  I’m sorry you almost died because I wasn’t good enough, prepared enough, wasn’t a better partner.  Is that why you’ve told me not to come back, that you’ll call me?  You’ve finally realised that I didn’t save you, that it’s my fault you almost died.  You’ve realised I’m not good enough for you.  Couldn’t you at least have told me that?  You’ve never shied away from honesty about my shortcomings before._

_I don’t understand.  I love you more than you can possibly imagine, and I still don’t understand you._

_Maybe I misinterpreted what you were saying, about finding someone to stand with.  Maybe you weren’t talking about me at all, but about Josh.  He saved your life, right there on the operating table.  He’s a better man than I am.  He’ll be good for you.  Maybe he’ll be enough for you._

_Who am I kidding?  He’ll never be enough for you.  You’ll never put up with him putting you second to his job, and then you’ll do the same to him – but then, that’s how you were already.  He goes abroad and you spend every hour in the precinct.  It won’t ever work.  You need someone for whom your job means as much as you do, who won’t resent it.  I wouldn’t.  I never have.  I know how much your work means to you, and I love you for it._

_Please call me soon, Kate, even just to explain.  I miss you already. That sounds trivial and pathetic, like you’re away on vacation.  There’s a hole in my life where you ought to be.   But I can’t bear to be sent away again. So I’ll stay away, until you call me, even though all I want is to come to you.  I couldn’t bear to see the disappointment in your eyes that I didn’t save you, and I can’t think of any other reason why you’ve told me to leave._

_I just don’t understand._

_Love, Rick._

He puts the pen down, just sits, blotting his eyes.  Eventually he goes to bed, but not to sleep.  He can’t sleep.  All he can think is that she doesn’t want him.

She doesn’t love him.  She’ll never love him.


	8. I find it kinda funny, I find it kinda sad

It’s been three days.

His study, the loft, are still and silent, the only noises the steam and beep of the coffee machine in the kitchen.  He’s drinking too much coffee, bitter black espresso to match his mood, but the alternative is drinking Scotch and he won’t let himself degenerate that far.  If she does call – _when._ When she calls – he will be sober, and he will be able to go to her.  No matter how she’s hurt him, he will go to her.

She hasn’t called.  It’s been three days, and he supposes he must still be alive, because surely no-one can hurt this much if they’re dead.  Seventy two hours, each hour, each minute, an individual agony, but he’s not dead.  All this pain, and it hasn’t killed him.

He can’t face talking to Ryan, or Lanie, or Esposito; admitting she sent him away.  He can’t face telling them that he isn’t good enough for her, that, essentially, she’s said so.  And he can’t face hearing how she is, how she’s recovering, second-hand: his concerns about her will not be assuaged by hearsay evidence.

When his phone beeps he grabs frantically for it, desperate for it to bring any communication from Kate.  His disappointment on seeing that the text is from Ryan is twisting in his chest, until he reads it.  Then his disappointment turns to agony, liberally bespattered with fury.

_Castle, just found out that Beckett was discharged yesterday.  Has she called you?  She didn’t call any of us.  Think she’s gone upstate to her dad’s cabin.  Get in touch with us, stat. Ryan._

She didn’t call.  She didn’t even say goodbye.  It’s been three days since she sent him away, and she’s left, and hasn’t called.  Hasn’t called anyone.  She’s simply dropped out, fallen off the grid.  He’s no idea where the cabin is, didn’t even know, really, that there was one.  He doesn’t remember if she’s ever mentioned it.

When Castle calls Ryan to find out what’s going on, Ryan confirms that she didn’t call any of them: not Ryan, nor Esposito, nor even Lanie.  When the four of them meet, shortly after work, Lanie informs them all that she only discovered that Kate was discharged because she spoke to a friend who’s a medic in the hospital, who let it slip in conversation.  Kate’s called no-one.  Left without a word to anyone.  So it’s not just him that she doesn’t want to see.  It’s all of them.  It doesn’t really help.

_Kate_

Not _Dear_.  Anything but dear, right now.  The black ink slashes viciously across the page, nib cutting sharp indentations in the paper.

_What in hell is wrong with you?  What have you done?  You’ve quit New York without a word to anyone: no-one knows where you are or what you’re doing there.  Have you any idea, any idea at all, how much you’ve hurt all of us? You didn’t even say goodbye to Lanie – too much to hope you’d say goodbye to me – or warn one of us that you were going.  How can you possibly think that this is acceptable?_

_God, listen to me.  I sound like I’m telling off a child for running off without permission.  I’m so hurt, so angry with you, so appalled that you’ve left hospital and, according to Ryan, likely gone to some upstate wilderness where there’s probably barely running water.  At least we think that’s where you’ve gone.  But we don’t know, because you didn’t bother to tell us.  Hell, Kate, of all the running away and backing off you’ve done in the past, this takes the cake.  Even if you didn’t want to speak to me – and clearly you don’t, though I still haven’t the faintest idea why not because you haven’t bothered to disclose that to me either – surely you could have told one of your friends?  The only single tiny glimmer that you’ve displayed any sense at all is that apparently – and we only know this courtesy of one of the medics who told Lanie – you left with your father.  Maybe he’ll talk some sense – or manners – into you.  Don’t you realise how worried you’ve made us?  I can’t believe how astonishingly selfish you’ve been._

He stops, at that.  Something doesn’t ring true, doesn’t fit the Beckett story.  S _elfish_ is not a noun he’d ever previously attributed to her.  She’s many, many infuriating, adorable, sexy things, but she’s never been selfish.  _So think, Rick.  What do you know?  Not what do you feel, what do you **know**?_   What does he know, what’s his evidence?  _Put aside your fury and **think**_.  Why might she act apparently so completely out of character?  He deliberately sets aside the feelings of abandonment and incandescent anger, and starts down the unaccustomed road of cool, controlled logic.  Like planning a novel, really.  Pretend this is a story, build up the character correctly.

She’s part of the team at the Twelfth, but always a little apart from it.  Never laying her feelings or emotions out for anyone to see – even he’s only ever seen small parts, in extremis.  Never sharing, never talking about things.  No close friends, apart, perhaps, from Lanie.  Never burdening others, but always taking the burden from the grieving.  Never, ever, asking for help.  Always protecting those she sees as needing it: the weaker, the sufferers, standing between those who are hurting and the world.  Always strong.

And then she almost died.  Did die, twice. Suddenly she’s wholly dependent on others and needing help herself, seriously damaged.  Weakened, albeit, he hopes, temporarily.

Oh _fuck_.  Abruptly it’s all wholly, horribly, clear.  She’s been protecting them.  Injured as she was, she’s been protecting them.  She’s been shielding them all from how hurt she is.  He thinks about the stories she told them – _at least until she threw you out_ , he thinks in a wash of bitterness. _Set that aside, Rick.  Think._ All the stories, all the upbeat tone, all positive, really.  That can’t have been accurate: it’s not normal for it all to be good.  He thinks about the time he’d thought she’d had a nightmare, that he’d never followed up on, that she’d never mentioned.  He thinks about how devastated her father had been, the worry that Jim couldn’t hope to hide from his brilliant detective daughter, Castle’s own concern, Lanie’s medical knowledge, even Espo and Ryan’s unconcealed anxiety bred of seeing other cops go down, dead or injured, in the line.

 _Oh_ _fuck_ , he thinks again.  What’s wrong with her?  He knows what’s wrong with her.  She’s _protecting_ – it comes with an acid edge – them from her being a burden on them.  She’s _protecting_ – the word does not improve with repetition – them from having to see her pain, weakness, struggles.  She’s _protecting_ them from – she thinks – having to be concerned, or worried, or fearful about her.

He curses, a long string of repetitive, vitriolic profanity under his breath.  Only Kate could think that she should protect her friends from her own time of need.  Only Kate would think that running off to be alone, so her friends wouldn’t see her pain and wouldn’t worry, with two barely healed wounds and hardly able to walk ten steps was a sensible measure to take.  Only Kate could think that if they couldn’t see her, they wouldn’t worry.

Only Kate would think that telling him to leave was a good way to protect him.

_Kate, I know what you’re doing now: I’ve worked it out.  But Kate, we don’t need protection.  We’re all big boys and girls; we can cope.  You didn’t need to shut us out. You didn’t need to shield me.  Okay, I was concerned about you, but I didn’t need you to protect me from that, stop me worrying.  I didn’t need you to send me away. Do you think so little of all of us, to believe that we couldn’t cope?_

Or is there more to it than just protection?  He’s seen how hard the physical therapy was on Kate, how little she could manage.  He’d thought, after he’d brought her books and cosmetics and nightwear, that maybe she’d been upset because she thought the scars would be ugly.  She’d been upset before, too, when he’d made that crass, careless remark about his muse not co-operating.  _Keep thinking, Rick.  Logic, not feelings.  You can have feelings later._

So.  What drives Kate Beckett?  Simple.  Being the best damn Homicide cop in New York.  Or possibly the world.  Bad-ass Beckett, faster, fiercer, feistier than anyone else; first through the door, gun up, high heels on, taking down the bad guys in style.  Tougher than titanium, harder than diamond, cold steel mind, but then compassion at her core.  It’s what first inspired him to create Nikki Heat.

And now it’s the ideal she thinks she can’t live up to.

_I see you, Kate.  Oh, I see right through you.  I said I didn’t understand you, but I do.  You’re completely, utterly insane.  I can’t decide if I should be furious or distraught or just laugh at how totally you’ve misunderstood me, all of us.  Lanie will kill you for this, you know.  The rest of us will have to get in line._

_In what possible world could you still believe that all you are is Nikki, that if you can’t be that hard-ass cop you’re nothing?  You’re everything.  Who you are doesn’t depend on your looks or your fitness or anything physical.  It’s so much more – you’re so much more – than that._

_I see you, Kate.  You’ve run away to hide, to try to become again the cop you think you have to be in front of everyone, in front of us, before you have to see any of us again.  You’re trying to protect us from seeing you healing.  But there’s more, isn’t there?  You’re hiding some weakness, and I think it’s rooted in that nightmare._

He puts the pen down again, reaches for his coffee, one bitter taste masking another.  He knows he’ll have to call the boys, Lanie, tell them what he’s surmised, what he’s deduced, incorporate their insights.  He thinks they’ll need the free beer at the Old Haunt to get through it half-intact.  It’s probably just as well that none of them know where the cabin is, because he wouldn’t put it past Lanie – hell, any of them – to mount a raid and bring Kate back.

He flips his laptop open.  There’s a little research he suddenly thinks he ought to do.  Late as the hour is getting, he needs to work through this, needs to finish it before can be any possibility of sleep.  But when he has finished, then for the first day since she sent him away he thinks he’ll rest.  Logic, that unfamiliar companion to his thoughts about Kate Beckett, rather than emotion or gut instinct, facts not stories, has brought him some peace.  He goes to the search page; types in _Heart Surgery Recovery_ , pulls up some of the less technical pages.  Then he searches on the effects of major bullet wound trauma, and reads about post-traumatic stress.  Then he pours himself a very large Scotch and downs it in one.

_I was right.  You’ve gone insane.  Didn’t it occur to you to read up about recovery?  Haven’t the doctors given you the booklets? Haven’t you read them?  Didn’t you **talk** to anyone?  Of course not. When do you ever **talk**?_

_I need to speak to Lanie, but it seems to my layman’s mind that there’s an inordinately large chance that you’ll suffer PTSD.  If, that is, you aren’t already.  And you’ve gone off with only your father, who, however good he is to you, doesn’t have the most stable history.  I’m sorry, I know that isn’t kind.  But hell, Kate, who are you going to talk to when the nightmares or the flashbacks start to get too much?  Because hard as I’m trying right now, I don’t see you talking to your dad.  And if you’ve gone upstate, I don’t guess that there’s a good therapist either.  So what are you going to do, Kate?_

_Unless you have Josh there with you.  Though if you do, the medic talking to Lanie certainly didn’t mention it.  Please, Kate, don’t tell me you’re trying to do this alone?  Somehow, I think you are._

_If I knew where to find you, I’d write to you.  If I thought you’d read a text, or answer a call, I’d dial your phone.  Always assuming that there actually is cell reception where you are.  Thinking about it, I don’t guess you’ll have that either, and if you do I’d bet every last cent of my next Nikki Heat advance – which, by the way, runs to six figures: it’s not a small bet I’m making; that’s how confident I am that I’m right - that you’ve switched your phone off and have kept it off.  If I could get in touch, in some parallel universe where miracles happen, I’d tell you we’re all here for you to rely on.  If we knew where to find you, we’d come to get you back._

_I love you.  You are the blindest, most infuriating, most idiotically self-reliant person I have ever met in my whole entire life, and right now I’d give anything to be with you, because I know that even you cannot, just cannot, get through this alone.  But you’re pigheaded, mule-stubborn, rock-headed enough to try._

_I’ll be there to pick you up if you fail.  If you succeed, I’ll never mention that I doubted you.  You’re so stupidly, recklessly, terrifyingly brave.  And I love you for it, and right now, in spite of it._

_Love, Rick._

He looks at the clock.  Past midnight.  Too late to contact Lanie, or the boys.  Anyway, he’s drained, strung out from the toxic mix of his earlier anger and hurt, the effort of analysing what might be happening, and the present dread of how badly Kate could mishandle what she’s going through.  Not for the first time, she terrifies him. But now he understands, he thinks, exactly why she sent him away.  Protecting him from her pain.  Protecting her, from his, especially if, possibly, he’s a trigger for flashbacks.  And protecting both of them from the possibility of a relationship where, at the absolute minimum, she feels she’ll never again be the woman she thinks he’s in love with.

If she’d only have told him whether he was a trigger, he’d have done anything she asked, for as long as she needed, open-endedly, without demur.  He’d have waited forever, if that’s what she needed.  She’d only have had to tell him, but she was trying to _protect_ him, so she didn’t.  She just left.

Only trouble with all that is, she’s got it all wrong.  He doesn’t need protected from her, and he’s not in love with some mythical goddess: Artemis, Athena, Nike: all aspects of one Kate Beckett, but not the sum.  He’s in love with her, with all her injuries and scars, with any weakness she might have.  Just her, however she is. 


	9. All I do is miss you

They’d had to stop every hour, for at least fifteen minutes, on the hellish drive yesterday.  Even in ordinary circumstances, it’s six hours from Manhattan to the cabin, deep in the Adirondacks, an hour over back roads from Lake Placid.  But Kate isn’t allowed to sit still for more than an hour in the car, needs to move a few steps, change position fully, for fear of blood clots, deep vein thrombosis.  The doctors had only discharged her on the basis that she would stop and move around every hour, made her father promise that she would. 

And so the drive took over seven hours, nearly eight, and two hours of that was spent leaning on the side of the car, stumbling to restrooms with her dad propping her up for as far as he could, forcing herself to stay upright, wiggle her toes, her fingers, do the arm exercises.  She’d had to wear a light wrap over dress which ties shut at the waist, no bra to rub or irritate the stitches, something which required no real effort to put on, which didn’t involve bending or stretching or pulling up pants or raising her arms.  She’s got a wrap, in case she’s cold in the car, which also does not require raising her arms.  It’s as much as she can do to deal adequately with her remaining underwear in the restroom – another indignity that she isn’t yet past, to add to the catalogue.  She’s lost so much weight that the dress closes easily even over the dressings, small consolation for the weakness she feels.

When they finally arrived at the cabin, deep in the wilderness, she could barely get out the car, even with help, collapsed into bed and slept twelve hours straight, not even fully undressed.  When she wakes the dressings are stiff and unpleasant, and she realises that she will have to soak them off, very carefully to avoid getting the wounds too wet, but enough so that the dressing will come away without pulling at the edges of the surgical cut, without ripping the ragged edge of the bullet wound.  Healing is hard enough, without causing further damage.  The instructions she’s got tell her that she should wash the wounds, very carefully, with plain soap and water.  Not even her own delicate body wash should be used.  Then, pat dry.  No rubbing.  Nothing that might tug at the sutures, pull off the legs from the spidery stitches crawling across and into her skin.  The effort to sit up for long enough to do this is too much to allow her to do anything more, and she falls back into bed with the fur of too-long sleep still on her teeth and tongue.  She’d hoped to brush her teeth, small victory over her exhaustion, but she cannot manage it now.  Her exertions in the bathroom were enough.

She sleeps again, and dreams in technicolour nightmare of Castle bending over her, large hands pressing on her chest, hurting her to save her, shouting.  She’s not well rested when she wakes, and it takes her many dragging minutes to get up.  But she has to, doctor’s orders, and not to upset her dad.   She needs to get stronger, for him.

* * *

 

Her father has been cooking, vast batches of casseroles and of bolognaise sauce, very mild chilli, mountains of rice, all divided up into single-person-size portions.  Anything nutritionally balanced, that she can simply reheat and add a side of vegetables.  He’s stocked the freezer with his efforts, every conceivable sort of frozen vegetable, and ice cream.  The last almost makes her smile, until she remembers that she might be allowed ice cream, but she can’t have coffee for another week.  Still, small mercies.

Until her father lets the door slam behind him and she’s left cowering on the couch, shaking and sweating, hearing the crack of the rifle and the dull thud of the bullet hitting her.  She breathes deeply, slowly, trying to work through the panic attack.  Before he returns, she’s managed it.  She’s got this.  It’ll be okay.

She reads a little, pushes herself to stand up, to walk the ten steps that are all she can manage without sitting down again.  Reads some more, does the arm exercises.  Her father has returned, and when he finishes putting whatever it is away and comes to sit with her, she can feel him watching her, concern and some confusion in his gaze.

“Katie.”

“Mmm?”

“You know, I don’t normally ask you about your decisions since you grew up and left home, but I’m a bit confused about why you wanted to come out here.”

That’s not a good start.  Since he got dried out, her dad’s been happy to take what information she’s happy to pass on, but he’s respected her right to adult privacy.

“Why were you so keen to get out of New York and stay up here?  All your friends are there; I’d have thought you’d want them around.”

She decides on a modicum of truth, carefully filtered and selected, and very definitely not involving how she feels about Castle and how much the conflict between her feelings and the flashbacks is ripping into her.

“I...broke up with Josh.  You know, the doctor with the motorcycle.  He’s a surgeon at the hospital, and I really didn’t want to be running into him.  And then I just wanted to be out the city for a while, somewhere with clean air and silence – no sirens.  I’ve had enough of the sound of sirens for a little bit.”  She smiles, forces sincerity into her face, hopes that the confession of slight weakness will deter her father from further enquiry.  It works.  He smiles back, crows-feet crinkling.

“Okay, Katie.  But you know I can only be here for a week: will you be fine alone after that?  I could get in touch with your friends if you want, give them the address.”

No.  Oh no, not at all.  That is very definitely not the plan.

“Let’s see how I’m doing at the end of the week.  But according to the doctors, if I follow the rehab schedule there shouldn’t be an issue.  I’d really just like some downtime.  I’m a bit tired to want visitors, even Lanie.”  Again, she throws a bone of weakness at him to hide the much bigger omission.

She misses her father’s sharp glance.  To the extent Katie talks to him about events at the precinct, mostly she mentions Rick Castle.  She’s very obviously _not_ mentioning Rick right now.  Which is a shame, because Jim likes Rick, from the limited extent he’s met him, and he thinks that Rick’s been good for Katie.  Still, matchmaking belongs in the old days, or _Fiddler on the Roof._   Katie knows what she needs, and he won’t interfere.  Rebound relationships are never a good thing, anyway. 

He notices that Katie’s looking tired again.  The drive yesterday had really been too much for her, but she’d been so insistent about leaving the city that he hadn’t had the heart to deny her.  He expects that her friends will understand why she’s come upstate.  It never occurs to him that she hasn’t told them what she’s doing.

“Katie, do you need to go lie down again?  You look a bit tired.”

“Just been doing the exercises, like the doctors told me to.  Nothing to worry about, Dad.  I’ll sit here, read a bit.  Promise I won’t do too much.”  She smiles, consciously making it mischievous, younger.  The concern in her father’s eyes fades and she breathes an internal sigh of relief.  She’s got this.  “Why don’t you go out and fish for a while?  Be nice if you caught something for dinner.”  Another sop, to make him happy, take the awful, unbearable, concern out of his gaze.

When he’s gone, she dozes, wakes on a start, a surge of panic, when some noise startles her.  She breathes deeply against it, looks down, sees the dressing between her breasts.  She realises that it’s hurting, that the long seam in her side is hurting, too.  She has to get to her room, find the painkillers, while she still can.  The ten steps she takes only gets her halfway: she leans on the wall; inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale; slow self-hypnosis.  Ten more steps, and painkillers, thankfully, there on the bedside table.  She swallows two hastily, desperate, suddenly, for their relief, falls back on the bed and shuts her eyes against frustrated tears.

As the relief begins to kick in, she tries to think through what she needs to do.  Change the dressings, again.  Do the exercises, walk a little, push herself to take it further.  She wishes that she didn’t have to do this alone, but then she thinks that she couldn’t have asked anyone to help: they were all so clearly upset by her state.  When she gets back, it’ll all be better, just the way it used to be.  No need for anyone to worry any more.  But still.  She remembers the look in Castle’s eyes when she’d told him to wait for her to call.  She wishes she hadn’t done that, but what else could she do?  He was killing himself over her pain and she can’t be his Nikki Heat any more.  Best to let it – him – down gently now, rather than have him start to resent her, pull away from her, later.

She needs to disperse her feelings somehow.  She hates talking about things – and who would put up with her selfish meanderings anyway; how can she admit to the inconsiderate resentments that make her less in her own eyes? But maybe she can write it down.  A diary – no.  Letters.  Letters that will explain.  Letters that she’ll never send.

Letters to Castle, because in so many ways in the last three years he’s been there for her and listened, because he’s saved her life, because he cares.  Because she cares, and now it’s never going to happen, and she never told him why before she left.  She’ll never send these, so she can write the absolute, unvarnished, unpleasant truth.  No need to worry about being selfish, no need to worry about causing anxiety.  Everything she’s scared about, every dark corner of her thoughts, can be written down, written out.  No need for structure, narrative, no need to organise her thoughts into coherence.  This isn’t a report for a file, it’s simply a release.

There’s pen and paper in her room.  When the painkillers eventually take full effect, too long after she’s swallowed them for her taste, she slowly locates them, and begins, painfully, discharging the pain from both body and soul.

_Dear Castle,_

_The wounds hurt almost all the time, still.  Sometimes less, sometimes more, so that I have to take another dose of painkiller to stop myself crying with it.  I can’t run, I can’t walk, I can’t even get off the couch further than the bathroom or my bed.  I can still only take ten steps without stopping to rest.  If I forget to take the painkillers, it hurts so much I can’t think.  I can barely get dressed in a wrap over dress, can’t put on a sweater.  It has to be a shawl, like I’m some old woman, bent and hunched over and ready to die. When I change the dressings, they’re foetid and stiff with fluids I don’t want to think about.  I can’t stop looking at the wound, and every time I do I feel it being made again._

_I remember everything.   I couldn’t tell you that, in the hospital.  I couldn’t bear to see all of you, so scared, so anxious.  I couldn’t hurt you all like that any more, so I left._

_I can’t get past the pain in my chest, and the pain in my heart.  I can’t even write more than this because I can’t keep my arms raised for too long._

_Kate_

She puts the paper and pen down.  Her arms hurt.  She lies back on the pillows.  Somehow writing it down hasn’t really helped.  But it will.  Therapy, without a therapist.  Absolutely no need to _talk_.  She’s got this.

* * *

 

The first thing Castle had done in the morning was call Lanie, but she doesn’t ring back till almost lunchtime.  Summer in New York means heat, and heat means tempers flare, and that means corpses.  Usually simple, easy corpses, but lots of them.

“What d’ya want, Castle?  Saw you yesterday, and while it’s nice looking at your pretty face I’m busy.”

“She’s gone mad.  I know what she’s doing.  She’s gone utterly insane.”

“Castle, what in hell are you talking about?”

“Beckett.”  He remembers not to say Kate, though likely it’s far too late for that to deceive anyone.

“What about her?  Talk, dammit.  I’ve only got five minutes.”

Five minutes isn’t going to be enough time.  “Lanie, meet me later, okay?  Will you be done by seven?  Need the boys, too.”

“ ‘Kay.  Old Haunt, seven.  Gottit.”  She dials off, the echo of morgue trolleys still ringing in his ears.  So nearly, nearly carrying Kate, a month ago.  But she’s not dead.  Just gone.

The four of them re-assemble at seven.

“Right then, spill.  What story are you making up this time, Castle?”

He explains his insights of the previous night.  But instead of the understanding he thought he’d see, there’s disbelief.  Lanie condescends to explain.

“Castle, I know you’re upset she left.  Hell, we all are.  But Kate knew what to watch out for.  I told her that if she was having nightmares, or flashbacks, she should talk to someone.  She’s just not that stupid, Castle.  And she’s tough.  If anyone could come through this without PTSD, it’s Kate.”

Ryan and Esposito are nodding.  “Beckett’s hard-core, Castle.  But like Lanie says, she’s not stupid.  Likely she just needs some time alone.  You know what she’s like, she likes to be by herself.  She’ll call us soon enough.”

None of them are saying _You’re clutching at straws, bro, to explain why she sent you away._   He hears it, all the same.

The talk turns, but Castle’s not reassured.  He thinks the others are wrong, but he’s helpless in the face of Lanie’s medical knowledge.  Except – he _knows_ Kate, in a way that even Lanie doesn’t.  But they’re not listening to him.  His earlier confidence fails him, and soon enough he returns to his loft, his study, and the pen and paper.

_Dear Kate,_

_I was so sure I’d worked you out, so sure the others would agree with me.  But they didn’t.  I could hear them thinking that I’m just grasping at any ghostly lifebelt that means I don’t have to believe that you ditched me.  I know they’ve known you much longer than I have, but – they’re wrong.  They don’t know you like I do.  Not even Lanie knows you like I do._

_You’ve gone upstate to lick your wounds, but you’re falling down the rabbit hole without anyone to catch you as you fall.  I know you are.  I see you, Kate._

_Lanie told us that Josh is on shift at the hospital, no vacation time planned .  If he’s on shift, obviously he’s not looking after you.  He should be.  He’s your boyfriend, he should be looking after you.  He’s a doctor, he’d be able to spot any signs, and make sure you get help.  Instead it’ll have to be your dad.  I hope it’s your dad.  At least your father’s with you.   At least let him in, Kate.  Even if you won’t let me in. Let someone help you.  Anyone.  Just don’t do this alone._

_Please don’t do this alone._

 

_But._

_But maybe I am just lying to myself.  Maybe you simply don’t want to see me any more.  I don’t want to believe that.  I don’t believe that.  I can’t.  It’s only that the others were so sure I was wrong.  And they’ve known you for so much longer.  I’m doubting myself, now.  Maybe you’re fine._

_Whether you want me or you don’t want me, I hope you’re fine.  Except I don’t think you are.  I think there’s more to why you sent me away than not wanting me to be worried.  I don’t think that your sudden catch of breath when you saw me had anything to do with a muscle pull from the physiotherapy.  I think you had a flashback.  I think I triggered it, and you didn’t want to hurt me by saying so.  Stop protecting me, Kate.  I don’t need protected._

_Or maybe I’m just kidding myself some more, and it was a muscle strain, exactly as you said.  I’m still searching for a lifebelt, because I’m drowning without you._

_Please come back to me, Kate.  Please come back._

_Love, Rick._


	10. Everybody hurts

Kate wakes up to the bright harsh light of mid-morning and for an instant she’s lying on her back in the grass, agony blazing in her chest, Castle leaning over her.  As swiftly it’s gone again, leaving her gasping.  Her dad’s calling her, and she has to rise, have breakfast, though the thought of eating makes her nauseous and she’d kill to drink only a coffee and eat nothing, absolutely nothing, else.  But that would worry her dad, so she sips milk, eats cereal as slowly as she dares to stabilise her stomach, declines toast.

Today, she’s going to start getting into a routine, that she can perfect before her father leaves.  So after breakfast, after the slow torture that is changing the dressings, remembering the slam of the bullet when she sees the wound and needing to block that off, after the time it takes her to recover simply from that, she struggles to her feet and counts her paces.  Ten is her minimum: she’s been able to take ten steps for four days now, so she’ll aim for fifteen, unaided.  She makes it to fourteen before she’s clutching at a chair back for support, sitting down heavily and jarring the wound in her side.  She’s unreasonably disappointed with herself.  It takes two more painkillers to pull her through lunch, but after the meal she’s unwilling to rest, insists on doing the other exercises, flexing as required until she feels the strain on weakened, severed muscle.  Intensely as she wants, needs, to continue, she knows that she has to stop now, or she’ll cause new damage.

She’s got this.  She’s got a routine, control, a plan.  But in the privacy of her head, all she can think is _fuck this hurts_.  And she doesn’t just mean physically.  She reaches for the pen, writes in stages, as and when she can.

_Dear Castle,_

_I’m so sorry I sent you away in the hospital.  I wish I hadn’t.  But it all hurt too much and I couldn’t deal with how you looked at me, your worry and concern and all your fears.  I can’t carry your pain too.  There’s too much of my own._

_I heard you.  I heard you screaming my name as I fell.  I heard you screaming I love you.  But I hear the crack of the bullet and the pain slamming into me and I can’t separate them from your words.  One time you came to see me, all I saw was you kneeling over me in the cemetery, the agony in your eyes all mixed up with love, and every time you came to see me after that, that’s all I could see when I looked at your face.  I can’t imagine your face any other way, right now.  I’m trying so hard to, but I can’t.  So I can’t bear to see you: it takes me right back to dying in a cemetery, and all my pain, and all yours._

_Truthfully, I resent it.  I resent that seeing you took me back to that moment, everything spoilt.  I resent your worry and concern, because I don’t want to need it.  Not from you, not from anyone. I resent that you only told me you loved me when I was dying.  And I feel so guilty about all of it, because all any of you wanted was to help. You couldn’t save me, you couldn’t rescue me, you couldn’t have told me you loved me any earlier because I’d only come to terms with it, was only ready to hear it, after Captain Montgomery was shot. That was my fault, too, but I can’t think about it now.  It’s so selfish of me, to resent you for wanting to help.  For saying you love me.  You’d be right to hate me for it.  You’d hardly want to love me if you could see this.  I couldn’t tell you any of it, because it’s petty and hateful and pathetic, and I didn’t want to hurt you.  I thought it would be easier to have one sharp cut, than the endless punches of resentment and guilt and pain.  I thought it would be easier to ask you to go now, than wait for you to realise you didn’t want to stay._

_I’m still looking at the stitches in my chest and the surgical wound.  I still can’t walk more than a few steps at a time. Fourteen, to be precise.  Fourteen steps, and I have to rest.  I could run a mile in four-inch heels, a month ago, spar for an hour and hardly break sweat.  Now I can’t walk more than fourteen steps.  I can’t get dressed in anything other than wraparounds, because I can’t raise my arms fully.  I can’t sleep properly because I’m reliving some part of this_ incident _– that’s what they called it, in the hospital, an_ incident _\- more times than not when I close my eyes._

_Lanie said that I’d have dreams.  She didn’t say that they’d be in 3-D with surround sound.  Total Recall, but I’m no Arnie.  She said they’d pass.  Maybe when I’m not so weak physically, they’ll fade._

_I wish I hadn’t told you to go.  I wish I could think that I could have you back.  But I can’t be Nikki any more.  It all hurts so much I can’t get over it: me dying, you screaming, any hope to have an_ us _lost the instant the bullet hit me._

_I can’t help your pain.  I can’t even help my own._

_Kate_

* * *

 

Each day begins to fall into the routine she’s established for herself. Each day she takes a few steps more, pushing herself further, faster, stopping only when it’s clear that one more effort will damage her.  Her father doesn’t see the pain she’s putting herself through, so that she’ll be fit enough that he won’t fret over her, won’t worry that she can’t take care of herself, when he leaves.  He doesn’t see the spiral of tension that envelops her when a door slams, when bright sunlight wakes her.  Her dreams are silent – they must be, because if she were screaming the way she hears in her dreams then she’d wake him.  And, not daily, but often, she pours out her pain and frustration and heartache on to white paper with black ink, writes another letter that she’ll never send.

The day, one week later, that her father has to return to New York, leaving her a full freezer, she can walk thirty steps without needing to stop.  It’s more than the distance from her bedroom to the main room, or from the main room to the kitchen.  Small freedom, of the ground floor of the cabin: although she’s no reason to go upstairs she feels restricted by the difficulty it would cause her.  Next week, when she can walk fifty steps, or more, she’ll try stairs. 

She only has to change the dressings every other day, and next week, if, when she changes them, the wounds have closed, she can leave them off.  She might even be able to wear a bra again – though no underwires that might rub against the wounds – which will bring back some of her sense of self.  It may be petty and pathetic, but she _likes_ wearing nice underwear; it makes her feel good, might take away some of the feelings of ugliness caused by the bullet hole.  Still no body wash, though.  It’s trivial, but she misses it unreasonably, though at least she’s allowed brief showers. (she wants a bath, but she’s not allowed.  Mustn’t soak the wounds.)   Soon, she thinks. But absolutely no high heels, for weeks more.  The day she can have her heels on is the day she thinks she’ll be as close to herself as she’ll ever be again.

She hugs her dad goodbye, waves him off, able to lift her arm to shoulder level for that long: another small victory over her injuries.  Finally she’s alone, no pressure of expectations, no need to be considerate or careful of another’s raw emotions.  She’s unconstrainedly relieved.  At last, time to heal in peace.  She feels so much better that she’s almost tempted to ring someone, to tell them.  But that desire is abruptly halted when she realises that walking back into the house is as far as she can go.  She’ll ring when she’s able to walk further.  When there’s proper progress.  When she can honestly say that she’s better, that there’s no need to worry at all.  When it’s time to come home.

In the afternoon the wind rises, and storm clouds start to gather.  Kate’s always liked thunderstorms, the sharp blazing knives of lightning, the bass counterpoint rumble of thunder, the rattling of the rain or hail on the cabin roof.  She settles down, nestled comfortably into the couch with a mug of herbal tea – still no coffee, but she’s counting down the days – that she managed to make easily without exhausting herself, another victory, and prepares to watch.  This is what she came here for, raw nature, no city noise and bustle.  Even the riot of the storm will soothe her emotions.  She sips her tea contentedly, only the dim lamplight to break the dark on which the storm will play, better for her now than any movie.

When the first slash of lightning rips across the sky she screams, taken straight back to the flash of sunlight on rifle and the muzzle spark.  She’s still screaming; terrorised, frantic and agonised, when the slam of thunder brings her to the thump of the bullet in her chest.  She scrabbles blindly for the main light switch, desperately trying to breathe, block out the flashback.  With each lightning strike she falls a little deeper into memory, unable to pull herself out.  She remembers everything, and the storm has triggered every single high definition pixel, every decibel.

It’s not until the storm has passed, well over an hour later, that she stops sobbing in terror, screaming again at every lightning bolt.  It takes her many minutes to be able to draw full breath, biting pain in her sternum leaving her desperate for painkillers, lying too many steps away in her bedroom.  She can’t move: eidetic recall still on continuous repeat in her head; the pain in her chest consuming her.  It’s more hours, suffering through the twin torment of the physical pain and the memory, before it all abates sufficiently for her to stagger to her bed, stopping every five paces to lean against the wall and gather strength for the next five.

She wakes late, still hurting, and takes two painkillers before she can do anything else.  Breakfast is an effort, the cereal tasteless, the tea unsatisfying.  She forces herself through the routine of walking, miserably aware that she’ll be lucky to walk as far as yesterday.  And indeed she can’t, falling short four steps early.  Unhappy, she turns to her written therapy, hoping that spilling out all her fears will help them depart.

_Dear Castle,_

_I let my dad go home, because  I didn’t want him.  I don’t want anyone.  I hate being so weak.  There was a storm last night: I used to love thunderstorms up here.  It left me screaming like a child with a nightmare, terrified and pathetic.  It’s just as well no-one was here to see me reduced to a cowering wreck. It’s just as well my dad didn’t see it.   And today I can’t even walk as far as yesterday: it hurts too much and I’m too tired.  Nobody told me it would be like this.  It wasn’t even a dream, I wasn’t asleep.  I thought that as I got better the dreams would fade.  Perhaps I just need more time._

_There are other things I should tell you, so I don’t think about the storm.  Get them off my chest – ha ha.  That’s an ironic phrase, in the circumstances.  But I have to laugh, because otherwise I wouldn’t stop crying._

_I broke up with Josh before I came out of hospital, straight after I came out of ICU.  I couldn’t tell you that.  It’s the only thing that hasn’t hurt since the bullet hit me.  He was upset.  I couldn’t bring myself to care.  He said it was your fault I was shot.  He said he should have known that I’d never really be with him.  He said he couldn’t compete with you.  I told him to get out.  I told him it wasn’t your fault.  It was never your fault.  But he could never compete with you.  You were right.  I was just hiding.  I never loved him.  I didn’t feel anything when he left.  Not like when you left._

_I thought that I had to tell you to go. I don’t want you to pity me.  I can’t deal with your disappointment in me when you see how weak I am.  I shouldn’t have sent you away without explaining, but it was just too hard to tell you.  And now I can’t ask you to come back.  I don’t want you to see me like this.  You followed me around because I was strong.  Kicking ass and catching killers.  Nikki Heat’s strong.  I can’t be that woman.  I’m not the woman you think you’re in love with.  I heard you.  I heard you in the cemetery.  I just can’t handle what you said.   I’m not that woman any more._

_I can walk from my bed to the living room now, without having to stop and lean against the wall.  Maybe in another week I’ll be able to do it both ways.  I still don’t sleep right.  The bullet hole is only just beginning to heal, but the scar will be there for ever.  I still can’t raise my arms fully.  I want to go running.  I want to spar in the gym.  I won’t be able to do any of that for months yet, the doctors said.  I’m too damaged._

_I suppose I should be grateful that I’m alive at all, but sometimes it’s so very hard to feel grateful.  Especially when my throat’s raw from screaming.  But it’s not just that.  It’s all the stupid, petty, minor, pathetic things that I can’t have, or can’t do.  I can’t have coffee because it’s a stimulant and it’s not good for me right now.  I can’t have a bath because the wounds mustn’t be soaked, or they won’t heal.  I can’t use my own body wash, because I’m only allowed plain soap on the wounds.  I don’t smell of cherries, now.  I can’t wear a bra, though I’m sure that wouldn’t bother you if you knew, because of the dressings.  But it means that all I see when I look down is the dressings or the hole where the bullet hit, still red and open and angry.  I have to re-dress it every other day and every time I do I remember dying.  I can’t even be in the shower for more than ten minutes.  It’s barely long enough to wash my hair._

_I want to have coffee, and hour-long baths with bubbles, and wear pretty, sexy underwear.  I want to watch the storms, and sleep with the dreams I used to have.  Another thing I never told you.  I dreamed of you.  Never of Josh, or Tom.  I want to run, to spar, to be on the shooting range.  I want my gun, and my badge, and my heels. I want you._

_And I can’t have any of it._

_I want my life back._

_Kate_


	11. An island never cries

Eight weeks after she’s been shot, Kate realises that she can walk all around the cabin, though it’s still a little tiring if she forgets and walks at her pre- _incident_ pace, and now she measures her walking in minutes, almost hours, not paces.  Physically, she’s beginning to feel that things are close to repaired: she hasn’t needed dressings on the surgical scar for almost a fortnight, and the ones on the bullet hole are only really needed to stop the elastic of her bra pressing on it uncomfortably if she moves awkwardly, so mostly they’re off too.  She’s able to drink coffee again, and the first cup she had left her practically moaning with pleasure.  She’s been good, though, she’s kept it to one cup a day.  She can keep her arms up for plenty long enough to wash and brush her hair properly, which allows her to look in the mirror without thinking dismally that she looks like a curly-mopped hedge.  But she doesn’t like the sight of the ragged, red scar in the centre of her cleavage, the raised knot of ropy tissue.  She doesn’t believe that she’ll ever be able to wear the red evening dress again, it plunges too low.  Showing off her scars is not her thing.

So physically, she’s pretty much fine.  Emotionally and mentally, she’s at a whole other ball game.

_Dear Castle_

_Every time a twig snaps I panic.  Every time the sun flashes on the glass I panic.  Everything brings it all back: IMAX 3-D in my head.  I remember everything.  Every second, every sight, every sound.  I can’t forget a single instant.  I still can’t sleep properly because of the dreams._

_I panic.  I can’t count the number of times in a day I start or flinch or cower away from an unexpected noise or flash of light.  Sometimes I scream. There have been more storms, and I’ve hidden in my bed under the covers with the pillows over my ears, like a child.  I have to get through it somehow.  Maybe now the physical wounds have healed, my mind will too.  The scars still hurt, but only very occasionally.  The stitches have nearly dissolved.  I can walk without stopping, inside the house.  I don’t go out much, only on to the porch.  I can’t walk in the woods because the noises spook me: I tried, before, but it took me two hours to get home, cringing at every noise, starting at every rustle,  and I haven’t dared do it again. My dad left me months of food, but I’m not hungry.  I’ve been eating so my body heals, but it all tastes the same.  I ring my dad, tell him careful, comforting lies, so he doesn’t worry.  I don’t want him to regress, ever to be tempted to drown his misery again._

_I can’t speak to Espo, Lanie or Ryan.  I can’t speak to anyone.  I’m too scared.  I can’t tell Esposito that I flinch every time there’s a snapped branch or a slammed door in the wind.  He’s an army man.  He’ll know I’m a coward.  And I am.  I can’t tell Ryan that I’m scared of being out in the noise of a New York street.  He’s a good cop.  I’m not any sort of a cop, right now.  And I can’t face Lanie over a corpse.  Not when I so nearly was one.  I can’t talk to a person who autopsies the dead body that I could have been._

_And then there’s you.  I don’t turn my phone on in case you call.  I can’t speak to you.  I heard you say you loved me but I can’t say it back.  It brings back all the memories and then it all hurts too much.  It’s easier not to think about it.  I told you I was a coward.  If I were braver I’d call you.  I miss you so much._

_I’ll never post any of these letters.  You’ll never see them.  So I can write the absolute truth.  I miss you.  I want to call you.  I want you to be here, making up your ridiculous theories about the people who live here and probably about the squirrels in the woods.  I want you next to me to hold me and comfort me when it’s all too much.  That would be a full time job, right now._

_I remember everything.  I remember the look in your eyes when I said I’d found a place to stand and someone to stand with.  I meant you.  I was all ready to step forward with you, and see what we could be together, and then someone shot me, and I died, twice, and even though the doctors resurrected me I’m not the woman I was.  Now I’ll never be ready._

_I remember everything.  I remember you diving towards me and the terror on your face, but I was already falling with a bullet in my chest.  It wasn’t your fault.  No-one can outsprint a bullet.  I was the cop.  I protected civilians.  It wasn’t your job to protect me, and yet so many times you have.  It wasn’t your fault._

_I remember everything.  I remember you screaming you loved me.  I already knew that, but I wasn’t ready to admit it.  Now I can’t tell you I know, because I’m not that woman any more.  I can’t ask you to heal my damage.  I know you’d try.  I don’t know whether you’d be doing it because you love me as I am now or because you loved me as I was.  It won’t work if you do it out of pity: I can’t stand pity; or remembrance of times past.  I’m too scared to watch you finding out that you don’t love me any more._

_Most often, I dream about the bullet and the horror on your face, but it’s all tied up with knowing you love me.  I can’t separate them.  I can’t think of you without the bullet coming between us.  It hurts to think of you.  I can’t call you because I know if I ask you’ll come, but what if when I saw you all I did was panic and run?  I can’t let that happen.  So I’m not calling, because if I call I’ll beg you to come and then I’ll only hurt you.  I’ve done enough of that.  One of us this hurt is enough._

_I love you, Castle.  But I can’t tell you that.  I love you and that’s why I made you go._

So there it is, written down for the first time, the core of her misery.  She’s just as much in love with him as he used to be with her and now she’ll never be able to do anything about it.  Somehow, seeing it in black and white makes it tangible in a way it wasn’t when it was only in her head.  She can’t expect him to put up with her as she is now.  She expects that he’ll come to the precinct for a while, long enough to realise it’s for the best, that she isn’t what he wants or needs, to round off Nikki Heat neatly.  Who knows, maybe another detective will take her place.  And it’s not like they’ve ever been together, anyway.  They’ll each get over it.

She sits there, dry-eyed, stony faced, beating back emotions.  Tempestuous weeping will only pull on the scars.  Eventually, she forces herself to the exercises, to walk for five minutes more than the day before, to find solace in exhaustion.  It doesn’t work.

To distract herself the next day, she reads through the doctor’s notes, and discovers that she can drive again.  They’ve always had a small, old car here, just in case more than one of them needed to go out in different directions, and the thought of going into the nearest town makes her surprisingly excited – after all, it’s hardly going to be like being in Manhattan, so why all the excitement about going to a small hick town?  But it’s _out_ , and there will be cafes, and shops, and people.  She’s suddenly tired of looking at the cabin walls.  If she’s really lucky, there will be somewhere she can get some really good coffee, to replace the middle-of-the-road beans her father had bought, and maybe even some vanilla syrup.  Mmm.  Yes.  She hunts out the car keys and sets out for Saranac Lake.

It’s great to be driving again.  She had the sense to put a dressing over the bullet hole so the seatbelt didn’t rub it, and she was so caught up by the idea that she was going out that she’d not even winced when she looked at it, still less had a flashback.  Okay, she’s driving _very_ carefully, but the back roads are not the best and she can live without hitting too many potholes and jarring the scars.  _Freedom_ , she hums to herself, and laughs at the melodrama of the idea.  _Independence_.  Yes, that’s the word.  At last, at last, she’s got some independence back.  She doesn’t need to rely on what her dad left her – though the food was good – she can get about.  She can walk quite far enough for anything she wants to do today, she’ll allow herself an extra cup of coffee in a cafe, and a bear claw.  She hasn’t had a bear claw since...oh.  Since Castle last brought her one, before she was shot.  Momentarily, she’s miserable again, wishing he were there, getting coffee and pastries and knowing just how she takes her caffeine hits.  She shrugs it off.  It’s for the best.  And right now it’s sunny, she’s got wheels, and she’s got freedom.  Life is _definitely_ looking good.

She parks with ease – clearly her driving reflexes are just fine – stretches gently when she gets out, just in case she’s stiff or sore, and discovers with delight that it doesn’t pull on her side any more.  The summer sun is deliciously warm on her shoulders and, strolling down the street, she finds she’s humming an old favourite of her dad’s, that she didn’t even know she remembered.

_Slow down, ya move too fast/ ya gotta make the morning last/ just kickin’ down the cobblestones/ lookin’ for fun and feelin’ groovy._

She’s unabashedly happy, wandering in and out the tourist stores, letting the morning drift past her.  When she finds a lot that sells really fine coffee, her joy in the day is perfectly complete.  And so it continues, no stress, no difficulties.  The sidewalks are busy but not crowded, the buzz of summer tourism soft and soothing, nothing like the sharp noise of a New York street.  The only thing she can’t bring herself to do is exchange anything other than brief soft words of request or thanks with anyone.  She’s not yet able to be talkative.  Who’s she kidding?  She’s never talkative.  But when next she ventures into the town she thinks she’ll be able to be sociable.  She gets lunch in a cafe, runs through the checklist of how she’s feeling, gauges her remaining strength, and decides, sensibly, that it’s time to go home.

At home, curled up on the couch, dinner over and tea in hand – she’s had enough coffee for this stage of recuperation – she muses over the day and realises that she didn’t have a single flashback, no panic attacks, no visions.  In fact, she’s completely relaxed.  Maybe being in town, in a familiarly urban setting, was a good thing: urban noises being something she’s intimately acquainted with, not likely to startle her like the sounds of the forest currently do.  For the first time, she really starts to think about returning to the city.  She can see an end to this.  Just like she’d thought, the tranquillity of the upstate wilderness has helped.  Just like Lanie said, the visions were part of the recovery, and now those, too, are passing.  Another couple of weeks, another trip or two to town, practise some sociability, and she’ll be ready.  She’s got this. 

She doesn’t realise that one day of peace does not mean she’s actually better.  And the brief thought of pulling on her gun and badge doesn’t give her the same satisfaction as it usually does; in fact, there’s a nervous roiling in her stomach.  She brushes that off as simple jitters about working for a new Captain, and begins to plan.  But it’s not as pleasant as she thought such planning might be.

_Dear Castle_

_I went to town today, and it was great. I really feel that I’m recovering, now.  No flashbacks, no panics.  Still, I didn’t feel much like talking to anyone.  I’m not sure what I could say to anyone, anyway.  Hello, I’m Kate, I nearly died last month?  Hello, I’m Kate, I used to be a cop?  Hello, I’m Kate, don’t worry if I panic if a car backfires, it just reminds me of being shot?  It’s not exactly a good foundation for a chat, is it?_

_But I didn’t panic.  I have to remember that, because it’s such a good thought.  It means I’m coming out the other side.  I’ll go back into town some more, now.  They have a really good coffee bar.  No bear claws, though.  I miss you bringing me bear claws._

She stops.  She really misses that.

_Maybe, if I’m really getting through this, then I can think about moving forward._

She pauses again.  She tries to call up Castle’s face in her mind, a picture of him from the early days, scruffily stubbled, irritating smirk.  It’s the most different portrait of him she can think of from how he was at Montgomery’s funeral.  And for a few moments, it works.  But then she remembers him leaning over her screaming, while she’s lying on the ground with a bullet in her.  All the joy the day brought her evaporates.  She can’t even finish her letter.

The next morning, shaky from lacerating dreams, she picks up the pen once more.

_I can’t move forward.  I can’t work around the circumstances surrounding what you said.  It’s standing in front of me, it’s the elephant in the room.  Who am I kidding?  The elephant isn’t what you feel.  It’s what I feel.  I was all ready to love you back, before I was shot.  Now I don’t know if I can.  I can’t separate you from the bullet properly by myself.  I’m going to book sessions with a therapist, for when I come back to the city.  Maybe that’ll help.  I want to be able to show that feel the same about you as you do about  me, without the vision of you screaming, the smack of the bullet, getting in the way every time.  I can’t even imagine your face for more than a moment.  I should tell you this, but I can’t.  Every time I think about calling it gets harder to explain why I didn’t call before.  You probably think I’ve dropped you.  I haven’t._

_When I come back to Manhattan, maybe I’ll have the nerve to call you.  I guess you won’t want to speak to me, the way I’ve been silent.  I’m so sorry.  It’s  all just too much still.  I can’t do it, till I’m fixed.  I can’t tell you I love you.  Even though I do._

_Love Kate_

The ink has run, slightly, something’s spattering it, but there is no sound to break the silence and stillness of the cabin.


	12. A time to weep

Castle’s spent weeks writing frantically, hiding in his words from his fears about what Kate is trying to do, all by herself upstate, and his fears that he’s misunderstood, that she really does not want to see him any more.  But none of it is in any way publishable, it’s just random, emotional, unstructured scribbling.  He finished Nikki 3 – Heat Rises, he’d called it – and Gina’s rushed it into print before he can back out of the signing and party schedule she’s planned.  He’s agreed to everything.  The busier he is, the less time he has to think.  He badly needs not to think, just now.

He’s not welcome at the precinct: the new Captain had made it perfectly plain, the first time he’d shown up, that he’s an unwanted, unwelcome distraction, and seeing Ryan and Esposito occasionally at a bar is no compensation from the lack of active cop work that used to fill his days.  No compensation for the absence of Kate Beckett.

It’s been nine weeks, and counting, and for five of them nobody has heard from her, not even Lanie.  They’ve all left messages – well, except him; he can’t even stand to dial her cell – but nothing’s been returned, not so much as a text saying that she’s okay.  Everyone’s worried, but then Lanie does some digging among the medical mafia and finds out that Josh is not around, hasn’t been around for a couple of weeks.  It seems pretty clear what’s going on.

And then he runs into Jim Beckett, wholly accidentally.  It had crossed Castle’s mind to get the boys to find him, but after the last time he’d suggested anything about Kate, he wasn’t willing to invite more derision, or pity.  Not to mention that he really did not want to find out that he was wrong, and she just didn’t want to see him.  That’s a finality he isn’t willing to invite.

“Rick!  Well, hi there.  Good to see you.”  Jim does indeed look pleased to see him.  That’s...confusing.  Why would Jim be so happy to see him given his daughter hasn’t dignified his existence with so much as a text for nearly six weeks?  Jim’s still talking.

“Come and have a coffee with me, Rick.  I’ve got some free time.  I’m sure you know how Katie’s doing, but it’s pretty reassuring to see someone else that I can talk to without needing to filter what I say.”

It dawns on Castle, blood sliding cold and sluggish through his veins, that Jim doesn’t have the faintest idea that Kate hasn’t spoken to him, or anyone, since she left.  He pulls on his social poker face and agrees.  At least he’ll find out how she is, and if he runs the bluff well enough, Jim will tell him everything he needs to know.  He’s learned a lot, in three years of interrogations.

“Sure,” he says easily, smiling.  “Got somewhere in mind?”

They end up in a small independent coffee bar, at Jim’s suggestion.  Seems that Kate had weaned him away from the big chains, convinced him that the independents made a better brew.

“So, Jim, how’s...Kate” – he stumbles over the name, too used to calling her Beckett in public, too raw when he remembers saying it last – “doing.  I haven’t heard for a little bit.”  Define _little_ , he thinks.

“Well, you know Katie.  I only hear from her every week or so, but she seems to be doing just fine.  She even went into Saranac Lake the other day, so she told me.  Must admit, it wouldn’t suit me being up there alone for this long, but she’s obviously happy with it.”

Castle feels a surge of elation.  Josh isn’t there.  Hasn’t been there, by the sound of it.  Jim would surely have known if Josh were there.  One worry, partially assuaged.  Though that doesn’t mean that they’ve broken up.  She should.  Break up with Josh, that is.  If he can’t even go to see her when she’s half dead then he doesn’t deserve her.  And then he remembers that he hasn’t seen her either, and then that he was sent away.  His social shell is coming under some strain.

“I was a bit worried,” Castle says carefully, mentally measuring the words to mislead, “that after being shot she’d have some form of PTSD.”

Jim doesn’t skip a beat.  “I thought that too.  I didn’t want her to go up to the cabin, in case, but she was so set on it.  You know how Katie can be.”  Oh yes.  He knows how Kate can be.  And it’s perfectly obvious that Jim can’t deny her anything when she stands firm, can’t withstand Kate’s forceful personality.

“So she hasn’t had any symptoms?  She hasn’t mentioned any to me” – _no, because she hasn’t called me_ – “but you were there.  Kate’s not exactly big on talking about things.”

“No,” Jim says, clearly thinking back over it.  “I don’t think there were.  She was suffering pretty badly physically” – Castle can just imagine that, and it sears his soul – “but she was getting over that before I left.  No, I don’t remember anything like that.”

Castle’s throat closes.  The lifebelt has been yanked out his hands and he’s going down for the third time.  _Face it, Rick, she simply does not want you._   There’s nothing left to hope for.

He manages to finish coffee with Jim, pleading somewhere else to be, gets home, even manages to text Ryan and Espo, then Lanie, to tell them he’d met Jim and Beckett’s okay.  And then he slumps down with the Scotch and drinks himself to oblivion.

In the morning, through the hangover, there’s a reply from the boys.  Beckett will be returning to the Twelfth in four weeks’ time.  Their new Captain told them.  For the last time, he picks up his pen and pulls the paper towards him, struggling for focus.

_Dear Kate_

_I heard from Espo you’re coming back to Manhattan, and you’re going back to the Twelfth next month.  You still haven’t called me, and I guess you aren’t going to._

_Even when you go back, I won’t be able to see you again.  I can’t be by your side, if there isn’t some hope that one day you’ll feel the same as I do.  Right now, I don’t think there is, and anyway, I’ve already said that you deserve a better man.  Someone who can save you when you need it._

_So, Kate, this is my goodbye.  I love you.  I probably loved you the moment I saw you, but it took a while for me to realise.  I love you, but I can’t stay if you don’t love me._

_Goodbye, Kate._

_Love Rick_

He puts all of the letters into a little-used drawer in his desk, and locks it.  He’d do the same with his memories, but that’s not so easy.  He won’t cry, he tells himself.  It’s not worth it.  But the tears slide down his face without listening to his words.  Everything he’d hoped for, gone.  Time to move on.

She doesn’t love him.  She’ll never love him. 

* * *

Deep in the Adirondacks, Kate is beginning to pack up.  Her dad’s coming to pick her up at the end of the week, and it seems like a good time to take stock.  She’s been into Saranac Lake a couple more times, and even to Lake Placid, and at no time when she’s been in town has she had so much as a hint of a panic or a vision, though she’s still dreaming of the  _incident_ at night, and she spent the last thunderstorm under her comforter with the curtains tightly drawn.  A few times every day, she tries to think of Castle’s face, managing for a few instants before memory cuts in, and then a few moments longer.

Still, she only needs to be fine in the daytime in order to get back to work.  She’ll get the name of a good therapist from Lanie, when she gets back, to deal with the nightmares.  She can admit to the nightmares without Lanie being so obviously, desperately worried as she was when Kate was in hospital.  Once they all see that she’s fine, it’ll all get back to normal in no time.  It was right to come up here for the summer, to heal in peace.  She hasn’t had to inflict concern on anyone, and she hasn’t had the pressure of everyone’s expectations to live up to.  She doesn’t consider that her own expectations have been far higher than anyone else would ever have imposed on her.  It’s worked, she’s better.  The scar on her side is now just a delicate line.  The one over her heart is a raised knot of red, twisted tissue, but she’s been practising with make-up and she knows how she can hide it.  Though there won’t be many low cut dresses in her future.  Oh well.  Men tend to fall into two quite distinct categories, cleavage or legs.  She can always stick to showing legs, if she wants to attract interest.  She very deliberately veers away from thinking about _whose_ interest she would want to attract.  Anyway, he’s into cleavage.  And kick-ass Nikki Heat.  Neither of which is her, any more.

She sniffs hard and keeps packing, and ignores the way she starts, the microsecond freeze, when a branch comes down outside with a crack.  She shuffles her letters together into an envelope and places them in the bottom of her case.  She’ll find somewhere  for them, when she’s home.  Just in case she needs them.

* * *

 

On the way back to New York, in the course of somewhat desultory chat about whether her apartment will be so dusty she’ll be able to write a book on the kitchen counter, her father suddenly says:

“Oh, I forgot to mention.  I saw Rick last week, ran into him in the street.”

“Castle?”

“Yes.  He said that he’d been worried about you, at the start.”

“Really?”  She’s beginning to get a bad feeling about this.  Still, she keeps her tone light and easy.  “He didn’t need to worry about me.  It’s usually me worrying about him, what new trouble he’ll get into by not doing what I tell him at a crime scene.”

“Ah well, Katie, he’s allowed to worry.  He’s a friend of yours.”  Ouch.  A friend.  Yes.  And then there’s the rest of what she feels.  He felt.  Once.  “He said he was concerned that you might have developed PTSD.  But I was able to reassure him that you hadn’t had any symptoms of that.  He couldn’t stay long, though, had somewhere else he had to be.”

“Oh,” Kate says, on autopilot, “probably a book meeting at his publishers.”  Conversation lapses again.  It’s just as well.  All her attention is suddenly on her nightmares, her flashbacks, the panic attacks.  _Could_  she have had PTSD?  But no, she’s pretty much back to normal now, been in and out of towns several times.  Still a few – okay, quite a few – nightmares, but no more flashbacks.  So, just like Lanie had said, it was part of the healing process.  She’ll see someone about the nightmares, separate the bullet from Castle.  She can picture his face, for a reasonable time now, without terror.  For the moment, she needs to concentrate on getting back to the Twelfth.  She still doesn’t feel like Detective Beckett.  She’s still not looking forward to being back in the way that she would have expected to, and she is very unsure whether she’s fit enough to take down a suspect.  But she needs to prove that she can at least do the job.  Even if she’ll never be Nikki again.  She stares out the window, looking at the road unroll towards the city, and tells herself she’s still got it.  But deep down, she doesn’t believe she has.  Until now, she hasn’t considered how she’ll handle it when she’s facing down suspects with weapons, and the picture of it sends a spike of adrenaline through her.  Suddenly, she isn’t sure at all that she’s ready for this.

She’s even less sure once she’s in the city, even if she’s not due back at work for another four weeks.  She can only stand the buzz and edginess for a little while, before she’s fleeing back to the safety and quiet of her apartment, concentrating on the last stages of physical recovery.  Sirens make her startle, and momentarily freeze.  She can’t face seeing anyone, or going out, until she can get through that, and the longer she doesn’t call anyone the more guilty she feels that she hasn’t and the less able she is to come up with a good reason why not.  So she doesn’t, just lets the days pass, puts it off.  She’ll see them all when she’s ready for work.  But she doesn’t really think that anything’s badly wrong until the day, a week before she’s due back, the flash of a motorbike headlight on plate glass leaves her shaking on the spot, barely smothering a cry.

That same afternoon she calls Lanie.  This is not right.  Even Kate has worked that out, now.

To say that Lanie is not happy with Kate would be rather like saying that World War II was a little neighbourly spat about the height of a dividing hedge.  Lanie lays into her like there will be no tomorrow for leaving without a word and then not contacting anyone for all this time, barely draws breath for fifteen minutes.  Kate can’t take it.  There’s a siren outside and Lanie’s yelling reminds her of the shouting at the cemetery and the shouting of the medics in emergency.  But Lanie only leaves off when she realises Kate is sobbing, repeating over and over _stop shouting, don’t shout, please stop_ , and by that time it’s far too late.  Lanie is on her way over before she’s even cut the call, but Kate doesn’t come to the door to let her in, and even Lanie doesn’t have the chutzpah to use her key, in the circumstances.

She’s still sobbing in her bedroom some time later.  Lanie hadn’t minced a single word on the phone: had started with _what the hell d’ya think you were doing_ and gone on through a series of variants on selfish, inconsiderate, worrying us all.  She’d thought she was doing the best thing, stopping them all worrying about her, and it seems she’s only managed to screw up any friendships she might have had before she went.  She didn’t hear Lanie at the door.  She doesn’t dare call Esposito, or Ryan.  She can’t speak, anyway.  She falls into misery-soaked, exhausted sleep, wakes from nightmare, sleeps again.

In the morning she calls the NYPD’s personnel department and requests the name of a good psychiatrist.  No confession of weakness, that, it’s almost certain to be suggested at the psych eval, a normal part of the process of return.  They give her a short list of three, and she calls the one who’s most convenient to her apartment to make an initial appointment.  She doesn’t call Lanie again, and doesn’t try Ryan or Espo.  In particular, she doesn’t ring Castle.  If Lanie had been that mad, he’ll likely be worse.  She’ll have to go and see him, but only once she’s had her first appointment.  She has no confidence at all that she will be able to stand seeing his face, never mind dealing with how he might react to her, without at least starting therapy.  At least then she’ll have someone who’ll have to listen to her broken heart, when she needs it.


	13. I've witnessed your suffering

Another book signing, another line of grinning fans, ninety-nine percent female.  The other one percent are either gay or buying for a woman.  _Your name is_? on auto repeat, practiced fake interest, fake sincerity.  He’s not interested in any of them, but it pays the bills.  Nikki Heat episode 3, Heat Rises.  He won’t complete a fourth.  He’ll find something new. Eventually.  He doesn’t need to, yet.  In fact, he doesn’t need to at all, because actually he’ll never need to make money again.  It makes itself, now, Nikki Heat’s been so successful.  It’ll not matter if he never manages to write again.  No more signings.  That’s no hardship.

And then the next queuing fan says, “Kate.  You can make it out to Kate,” in a very familiar voice.  He looks up in furious disbelief that she could just appear and think that it was all okay, scrawls across her book and turns away without a word to the next woman in line.  He keeps signing, name, smile, scrawl, repeat.  In the back of his mind he can’t make the vision of her go away, soft smile, healthy complexion, longer hair that he’d want to run his hands – no.  _No_.  He doesn’t want her any more.  She doesn’t want him.  They’re done.  He keeps signing, till his stint is finally over, suppressing his rage.

Even on the way out there are more fans, but when he looks round she’s standing there, waiting for him.  She tries to talk about it, which before she left he’d have killed for, but he’s not interested.  He’s just so angry, still, that he watched her die and she just fell off the grid for over two months, and he makes it very clear how he feels.  That’s no way to treat people.  She needed time, she’s saying.  He can’t help himself.

“Josh help with that?” he spits bitterly.  She looks at him in a way that he’s never, ever, seen, shamed and defeated, and tells him they broke up before she turns and walks away, shoulders braced.

He’s still so angry with her, he barely registers what she’s saying.  Gradually, as he watches her walking swiftly away, it percolates.  She’s single again.  But he’s so very, very angry as he takes an inadvertent few steps in the same direction, wanting to catch up, to tell her that’s _not enough_ , how could she just abandon him for three months, return without a word of notice, expect him still to be there waiting for her?  He won’t be there.  He won’t be a puppy to come to her heel when she calls, to be casually picked up or put down as she pleases.  They’re done, and he intends to tell her so, and why, in words that will hurt her as much as she hurt him.

And then he sees it.  A truck backfires, like a gunshot.  And she freezes, stands stock still on the pavement, suddenly hunched.  _Cowering_ , he thinks, appalled.  Beckett doesn’t cower.  Retrace those words.  Pre-shooting, Beckett _didn’t_ cower.  Past tense.

 _Fuck_.  He’d been right all along, and he’d let the others, Jim, his own insecurity about her and his anger at her leaving, talk him out of it.  He should have dragged Kate’s location out of Jim Beckett when he saw him.  He should have known that Kate would have hidden it from Jim.  (She’s back to Kate, instantly.)  He should have gone to her, ignored her wishes.  In the few brief instants his thoughts take, she hasn’t moved.  He takes a handful of swift strides, catches her up, speaks from behind her.

“What the hell, Kate?  What happened there?”  She’s graveyard white, face frozen like a headstone.  He takes a chance he’d never have essayed pre-shooting and puts an arm round her, steers her forward, out the flow of New Yorkers in a hurry.  She’s trembling, and he’s very certain it has nothing at all to do with his touch; she’s biting her lip, and it’s anything but seductive.  She looks as if her teeth in her lip are all that’s holding in a scream.

* * *

 

She’d gone to the precinct, that morning, reported for duty, been sent to evaluation.  Physically, she’d passed, even had a small margin of safety over minimum requirements.  That had been a good moment.  She’d been back in business, and she’d known that it wouldn’t take her long, now, to be right back where she should be physically. 

The psych eval – hadn’t gone so good.  She couldn’t lie well enough to get past it, couldn’t beat the interrogation.  The final straw had been the unexpected whipcrack noise, sending her into tailspin panic.  She couldn’t hide that.  She’s been benched for another four weeks, with a recommendation that she sees a therapist at least once a week, preferably more. The only small positive had been that she’d been able to say that she had already started on therapy.

 She hadn’t stopped to see Ryan or Esposito, not willing to see the contempt she expects them to feel: firstly, because she isn’t fit for duty; secondly, because they’ll berate her for her selfishness, just like Lanie did.  Besides which, there’s something else she has to do.  She’d just about managed to be honest with the therapist: at least, she’d admitted to remembering everything, and he’d extracted from her why she’d felt she had to run away.   It seems that inadvertently she’d been doing some of the things he would have recommended: writing down her feelings, and deliberately envisioning one of the triggers of her flashbacks until it had almost stopped having that effect.  He’d suggested that, when she feels ready, she needs to explain to – people, (she doesn’t think about who) because she won’t be able to recover fully till she does.  He doesn’t judge her for taking the actions she did, though, seems to understand her need to shield the others from her own situation.  But, still, he was very insistent that at some point, but only when she is sure she’s ready, she will need to explain, to give herself absolution.

And because she has to start somewhere, she might as well do the most difficult one first.   Whether she’s ready or not.  Nothing could be worse than this: but even if it triggers a flashback, she’ll have got it over with, and then she can move on, start to get over him.  On the basis of the others’ reactions, he’ll be angry, and pleased to see the back of her.

It’s not difficult to find out where Castle will be: all she has to do is Google, and the search throws up a complete schedule of book signings.  She decides against going to his loft.  That would leave her no route of escape, and besides which, this will be hard enough without an audience composed of his family, who will likely feel the same way as Lanie and be equally open about it, or the privacy that would allow a shattering outburst of emotion, from either of them. And, small, pathetic consolation, she can at least buy the book, and have that to solace her later.  His books have always comforted her, long before he himself did, and since he won’t be there to comfort her any more she might as well have the book.  

The line shuffles forward, slowly, full of pretty, excited women who probably don’t have bullet scars on their chest or freak out every time there’s an unexpected noise.  She can’t do this.  And then she thinks _I have to do this_ and just keeps inhaling, exhaling, warding off the panic that threatens to engulf her.  Shuffle, breathe.  Don’t think.  Concentrate on when it’s all done, and she can walk away.  Shuffle, breathe.  It’s the front of the line, she’s next.  She doesn’t look at him for more than a minute when she puts the book down, just says _Kate, you can make it out to Kate_ , and when he looks up she sees the blaze of fury just like she expected, watches him tamp it down and replace it by complete indifference, slash a signature across the book, look past her and smile at the next in line.  It’s so unlike how he used to look at her, his face is so unfamiliarly harsh, that it doesn’t even start to trigger terror.  But she’s started this now, she has to finish because if she doesn’t finish it now she will never assemble the courage to do it again, and she has to move on, finish healing.

Waiting outside is – not easy.  The street noises are pushing her adrenaline levels, already elevated, higher; the constant flashes of sunlight making her startle and look round, frantically sweeping the street to make sure it’s clear.  By the time he comes out she’s a wreck.  She only manages to explain a small part before it’s obvious this was a mistake: he isn’t going to listen, he doesn’t want to know.  He’s hurt and angry as he tells her he watched her die, and there is no way that she’ll be able to tell him what she needs to, especially as she can’t look him in the eyes in case she falls apart again.  She’ll just need to find some other way.  It’s very clear that they’re done.  There’s no way to mend this breach.  His parting shot is a comment about Josh, so she simply manages to look straight at Castle for the first time, says that they broke up and turns to leave, taking a random direction, desperate to be anywhere that isn’t here.  She needs to get home.  The street’s no place for crying.  She pulls minimal self-control around her and keeps walking, not aiming for any particular place, just the first subway station where she can find her bearings and go home.  She’ll have to tell the shrink she’s fallen at the first fence.

She’s maybe a hundred yards away from the scene of her devastated hope of absolution when there’s a crack like a gunshot and she loses it, freezes up, all the memory pinpoint sharp.  She just stands, jostled by bustling shoppers and office workers, unable to move out of the crowds.  Her teeth are clamped down on her lip.  She isn’t screaming.  It’s never she who screams, in the flashbacks.

Someone steers her out of the flow of the grumbling, cursing mass of inconvenienced, unsympathetic people.  There are words in her ear, but she doesn’t hear them.  All her attention is on putting one foot in front of the other, walking not falling, drawing slow breaths not gulping in panic.  She doesn’t know who this Good Samaritan might be, and right now she has nothing to spare to investigate or care.  She just wants to be at home.

“Thank you,” she whispers to her unknown saviour.  “I’m fine now.  I’ll just get a cab.”  She doesn’t look up.  Focusing on the grey slabs of the sidewalk reminds her that she’s not dying on green grass under cyan sky, brings her partway out of memory, sufficient to take her home.  She steps away to the kerb, puts her hand out to stop a taxi.  She doesn’t look round.  The unlooked-for kindness of strangers is too much to bear.  When a cab pulls up she gets in with the automatic, rapid door-close of the safety-conscious single woman, preventing any unwanted company.

Castle blankly watches the cab depart, shocked rigid, too horrified even to try to go with her.  Seconds tick by while he gathers himself, attempts to process the last hour.  She’d come, and he’d been furious, and when she’d tried to explain he wouldn’t hear her out because she’d sent him away for no reason, and she looked so normal when she finally did show up so he’d thought that she was; and everybody, and everything he’d heard, had told him he was wrong about why she left, and because he thought they’d known her better, he’d believed them.  And given up on her, and he’s just told her so.

Except he’d been right.

He’d been right, and he’s just watched her have a panic attack right there in the middle of the street, so bad that she didn’t even know it was he who was helping her, and now he’s let her flee alone, who knows where.  He pulls out his phone.

“Esposito?  Castle.  Did you know Beckett was back?”

“Nah.  She should have started back today, but I haven’t seen her.  When she does bother to show up, she’ll find out how pissed we are ‘bout her ignoring us all summer.  Lanie’s really, really mad with her too -”  Castle runs right over him.

“She showed up at my book signing this afternoon.”

“Say what?  Can’t accuse her of not having balls.”  Castle hears the noise of light dawning on Espo.  “Wait,” he says slowly.  “If Beckett’s back in New York, how come she ain’t back here?  What the frig?”  There’s the muted noise of Espo calling to Ryan.

“Ryan!  Get your ass over here.  Castle’s on the phone. Did _you_ know Beckett’s back in town?  Didya see her in the precinct today?”  Negative noises, followed by a string of inaudible questions.  “Nah.  I dunno either.  But Castle says she showed up at his signing.”  Espo comes back on the line.  “Ryan didn’t know either.  Why’re you bothered, anyway?  Thought you’d said it was all over?”

“It was _all over_ ,” Castle bites venomously, “because I let you bunch of complete fucking _idiots_ talk me out of what I knew about Kate.”  He’s abruptly too angry with them, and more so with himself, even to remember to call her Beckett.  And what does it matter, anyway, since every single one of them heard him in the cemetery and knows the truth of what he felt.  Feels.

There’s a dead silence, until Esposito says very cautiously, “What’re you talking ‘bout, bro?”

“I let all of you _assholes_ convince me that she wouldn’t run off and hole up alone if she had PTSD.  Well, guess what, pal, you were all _wrong_.”  He stops, before he really starts to lay it out.  Yelling imprecations in the street is not a good plan.  No matter how much he wants to.  In his silence he can hear Esposito mumbling under his breath.  It sounds like a long string of the vilest profanities he’s ever heard in a mixture of Army slang and street Spanish.  When it pauses, he hears Esposito rapidly telling Ryan to find out if Beckett showed today, and anything else he can discover, stat.

“Wrong?”

“Yeah, _bro_ , wrong.  I’ve just watched Kate have a full-scale panic attack ‘cause a truck backfired.  She didn’t even realise I was beside her.”  More silence, followed by more swearing.  “Nothing to say, Espo?  Still _pissed_?  I sure am.  But not with Kate.”  The acid tone etches fury on the cell phone, without Castle ever raising his voice.  “I trusted all your judgment about what was going on with her, because you’d known her longer.  Should’ve trusted my own.”  Suddenly he’s too strung out to talk to Esposito any longer.  He’s about to cut the call when he hears Ryan in the background, rapid-fire information passing too fast to be intelligible.

“Castle.  Bro.” There’s an apology in Esposito’s voice.  “Beckett did show. But she flunked eval.  She’s been benched for another month.”  All his fury at himself, them, the whole situation, boils over.

“With so-called friends like you, that’s probably just as well.  Maybe by the time she’s back, you’ll have been able to get over being _pissed_.”  He jabs the call closed before Esposito can react, not the slightest bit sorry for how he’s spoken.

* * *

 

In the bullpen, Ryan’s looking questioningly at Espo’s frozen face.

“What was that about, man?  What’s with Castle?”  Espo’s mumbling to himself.  He looks like someone sandbagged him.  Out of the mutters Ryan can just pick out _clusterfuck_ and _really screwed the pooch now_.  He gets worried, fast.  Whenever Espo goes back to Army jargon something’s gone seriously bad.  Esposito doesn’t answer him.  He’s stabbing at his phone.

“Lanie, Javi.  Beckett been in touch?”  There’s a gap, while Lanie says something that Ryan doesn’t catch.  It doesn’t seem to be helping Espo at all. “Then what?”  Another pause.  “Shit.  Lanie, Beckett failed eval this morning.”  High-pitched noises.  “Four weeks.  Castle just called.  He’s out for blood.  Says Beckett zoned out right in front of him.”  More noises, some way up towards falsetto range.  “No.  Bye.”

“Beckett zoned out?” queries Ryan, clearly disbelieving. 

“Yeah.  Shit, Ryan, Castle called this, back when.  An’ we talked him outta it.”  He fixes Ryan with a glare.  “What did she fail, on eval?”

“Didn’t ask.  Didn’t think it mattered, seeing as she’d dropped off the grid on us, didn’t call.  Wasn’t bothered.”  Ryan puts in a brief call and ends it looking as white as Esposito feels. 

“Psych.” 

It’s all the two of them need to know. 


	14. Dreams in which I'm dying

Kate’s cooking.  She has to eat, no point in losing all the gains she’s made to be back to reasonable fitness, and she’s still some way too thin for her own comfort.  So she’s making a nutritionally balanced – she spits, mentally, she wants an additive-laden takeout, comfort food after the day she’s had – meal, with a single glass of wine beside her.  She’s exerting considerable control not to down it and keep going.  There’d been no wine, or any other alcohol, at the cabin.  There never is.  No temptation.  But now she’s home, and the bottle is right there.  She’s stronger than that.  She has to be.  She doesn’t need painkillers and she doesn’t need alcohol to cope. 

She’s got this.  She’s got a second appointment with the shrink tomorrow, had called as soon as the cab had deposited her home.  She’s going to do this.  If her former friends don’t want to know her, selfish as she’s been, then she’ll do it with the professionals.  She’s got four weeks to spare, and nothing else to fill the time, except trying to get over Castle, and no doubt Dr Burke can help with that too.

She’s angrily brushing away an errant tear as she chops mushrooms for stroganoff.  She can’t even blame the onions, deceive herself that it’s just the acrid fumes, because she’s done all that already, and they’re softening in the pan.  She blows her nose, allows herself a single small sip of her wine, and goes back to concentrating on her chopping: neat, even, slices.

The repetitive motion doesn’t, sadly, stop her reviewing the day.  Well, she’d had to once already, to explain why she wanted an almost-immediate second appointment with the psychiatrist.  He’d listened without condemnation, and told her to come in tomorrow.  If she felt able, maybe writing it down might help her, he suggested.  It does, he’d said, for some people, but not to worry if she didn’t want to.

So, the day.  Went the day well?  Not in any way at all.  Failed the psych, didn’t even get to the shooting range, benched for four more weeks.  Tried to talk to the biggest source of unhappiness and guilt, and didn’t get anywhere, though that’s not really a surprise.  She’d made him go, and he has.  It’s what she’d thought was best.  And then a flashback that left her completely unaware of her surroundings, and some kind stranger had helped her – can’t have been a local, that’s not New York City style - and she hadn’t even been able to look at their face when she thanked them.  All in all, a pretty poor day.

She swirls the onions round the pan, adds the sliced beef, the chopped mushrooms.  At least it smells good.  She likes it with rice, not the more usual noodles, though potatoes would be the true legacy of how she’d eaten it in Kiev.  The sauce is waiting in another pan, liberally laced with paprika, ready to be added.  It won’t take long to blend the flavours, but if she wants it can be left for a while without spoiling.  Maybe she should write down how she feels about today while it cooks.  She adds the sauce, turns the heat under the pan down to a minimum, switches off the rice.

She’s most of the way down the page, small, smooth, neat writing from a liquid gel pen belying the roughness of her feelings, when someone knocks at the door.  She ignores it.  It’s likely to be Lanie, and after the previous experience she isn’t up for another round of being told how ungrateful, how unlikeable, she is.  She’s got enough to deal with as it is.  She goes back to writing.  It’s not really helping her right now, but if Dr Burke thinks it necessary, and says it will help her recover, she’ll do it.  What else is there to do, if she wants to be a cop again?  And even if she doesn’t, she can’t continue with the nightmares and the flashbacks.  That’s no way to live.  It might have taken her a while to realise it wasn’t right, but now she has she will damn well fix it.  She realises that the pen is tearing the paper, she’s suddenly pressing so hard, and forces herself to relax, goes to stir the stroganoff.  The knock on the door sounds again. 

Okay, someone is irritatingly persistent, and it won’t be the previous star of that movie.  Whoever it is, she doesn’t want to see them.  It won’t be anything good.  So she’ll open the door, and then send them away.  Her temper’s up as she does, and it’s not improved by the sight of the visitor.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Unfinished business.” 

She marches right over the rest of what might be said.

“We have no unfinished business.  Leave.  Now.”  She pushes the door shut.  Tries, anyway.  There’s a foot in the way. 

“You made yourself pretty plain earlier, Castle.  We’re done, and that’s okay by me.”  Her voice is steady, how, she doesn’t know.  “I don’t need to hear you say it again to take the hint, I understood just fine the first time round.  Now get your foot out my door and go.”  She shoves again, not looking at his face.  The foot doesn’t move.

“How are the panic attacks, Kate?”  He notices that she hasn’t looked at his face yet.  In fact, she’s only looking at his foot.  Or the floor.

“I don’t believe you’re qualified to make that type of diagnosis.  _Psychiatry for Dummies_ is not equivalent to a medical degree.  We have nothing more to talk about.  I told you to leave.  Do I need to call the building supervisor to have you removed by force or will you go?”  This acid-edged precision of words and diction has always signalled to him that she’s furiously angry, holding on to temper by a thread.

“I don’t need to be qualified _or_ to diagnose you.  I _saw_ you this afternoon.  I’m the one who helped you, and you were so out of it you didn’t even realise it was me.  I had an arm around you, Kate, and you _still_ didn’t realise it was me.  If you’d been even half-aware you’d have known.  You could have been on Mars.”  He almost misses her reaction, a fractional stiffening in her shoulders.  She still hasn’t looked at him.  He’s not intending to leave, this time.  He wants to hear what she was trying to tell him this afternoon.  Time to run a bluff.  Or call hers. 

“Look me in the eye and tell me honestly you knew it was me this afternoon, and if you can do that I’ll go.”

She’s infuriated enough by his arrival, his statement that he’d helped her – she doesn’t want to believe him, but why would he invent such a stupid lie -  and his confidence that she won’t be able to do it, to try it.  She takes a deep breath, looks up into his face – it’s only for a moment, she can look at his face for a moment, she’s got this – and says steadily, “I knew it was you.”  She’s just got time to think that she’s pulled off the bluff successfully when a door slams somewhere in the building and she startles, frantically hunting for the source of the noise, choking for air, and completely negating every word she just said.

Castle seizes the opportunity and closes the door with both of them on the inside – she lost, so he’s not leaving, it’s not cheating - steers her to the couch and then carefully places himself out of Kate’s sightline, saying nothing.  He’d spent some dedicated time this afternoon, after he’d ripped up at Esposito, re-reading the letters he’d written (but not the final one, he can’t bear to read that one, even now) and revisiting the research that had led him to the conclusions he’d reached.  He thinks that staying out of view is probably a good move, because if he causes a panic attack he’ll need to go home and stay home, away from Kate.  This had been a seriously high-stakes play, and he’d only attempted it because she’d managed to look straight at him in the bookshop and again after, which was, he’d earlier reflected, a whole lot more than she’d managed for the last ten days in the hospital.  But he still doesn’t want to chance it.

Once it’s clear that Kate is not going to be moving anytime soon, Castle quietly gets up and follows his nose to the kitchen, where he notices the abandoned stroganoff with some surprise and not a little amusement.  He’d never thought of Kate as a cook before; as far as he’d been aware, she lived on takeout and caffeine, in broadly a one-to-five ratio.  This smells rather good, though.  He dips a finger in and tastes it.  Hmm.  He’d use less paprika, and maybe more black pepper, and definitely noodles, not rice.  Still, it’s tasty.  He gives it a stir with a handy spoon.  There’s still no sound behind him, and he’s not at all sure that Kate has actually registered that he’s in here.

He pads over to the bookshelves by the desk, looking for something to occupy himself till Kate returns from whatever vision she’s lost in.  No point in trying to bring her out it: he doesn’t know what he’s doing, and ignorant interfering is unlikely to be helpful.

His attention is snagged by the writing paper on the desk, filled with neat dark handwriting, and curiosity easily overcomes good manners.  Especially as he reads the salutation.

_Dear Castle_

What?  All respect for her privacy is cremated in the flash of ashen-faced astonishment as he reads that a second time.

_I didn’t think I’d be writing that again.  It’s probably not appropriate, after today._

Again?        

_But the psychiatrist says writing is still a good way to deal with things, and I got used to writing to you over the summer, so I might as well continue.  It’s not like anyone’s going to read this, anyway._

Now he’s really confused.  She never wrote to him.  She never called, or texted, or contacted him in any way.  What letters?  He stands transfixed over her writing desk, scanning faster and faster.

_It’s not been a good day.  There’s an understatement._

_I was supposed to go back to the precinct today.  So I went, full of confidence, happy that over the summer I’d got better.  And then I went to eval.  I passed the physical evaluation, even had a safety margin, but I couldn’t lie well enough to pass the psych.  They wouldn’t let me into the shooting range, after that.  No point, I suppose, letting me try to requalify, because they’ve benched me for another four weeks.  Given how the psych went, I’m not sure I’d have been able to lift my gun and fire.  I’ve failed.  The first test of recovery, and I’ve flunked out._

_I didn’t go by the bullpen.  I can’t face the boys.  Too much of a coward: Lanie yelled at me for being selfish and I can’t bear seeing them and knowing they’re thinking the same, especially when I can’t even get back to the job and prove myself again._

_I thought I was doing the right thing by leaving, stopping all of you worrying.  I needed time without you all watching, without the pressure of your pity and concern.  I couldn’t cope with all your anxieties on top of my own: I was drowning under all your expectations.  I didn’t think you’d all worry so much about me if I wasn’t there, I thought you wouldn’t be burdened by me, if you didn’t have to come and see me.  Seems I got that wrong._

_As if that wasn’t enough for one day, I thought that if I’d failed at one thing, maybe I could try to succeed at another.  Dr Burke told me that when I was ready, I should explain why I did what I did.  Well, that failed too.  Hardly surprising, really.  At least I managed to look at you.  I couldn’t have done that, six weeks ago, without the memories overwhelming me.  Perhaps it’s just as well it went like that: now I can start to move on.  I’m not Nikki.  Right now, I’m not even capable of being a cop.  Clean cuts are a better ending than a build-up of slow resentment.  You’ll find another muse, soon enough._

_And then I had another flashback: heard the shot, felt the bullet.  Some stranger got me out the crowd: I don’t know who, or why.  The undeserved kindness of strangers._

The writing stops there, the letter clearly unfinished.  Castle trudges away from the desk, back to the kitchen.  He gives the stroganoff an unthinking stir.  He shouldn’t have read that.  No-one should ever have read that.  But now he has and the words are etched on his brain.  He can’t stay, after reading that.  He has to be somewhere Kate won’t see him, won’t suffer from seeing his face, where he can think, alone.  He leaves, closing the door soundlessly behind him. 

He’d called it, every last bit of it.  He’d been right, and everyone else had been wrong, and that thought gives him no satisfaction at all.

* * *

 

It’s the fabric of the couch that pulls her out of it, the texture of the cotton twill slipcovers under her hand nothing at all like the green grass of the memory.  She doesn’t recall walking to the couch: the last thing she remembers is looking Castle in the eye for just long enough to lie.  But he’s not here.  Seen the panic attack, seen how unlike Nikki she is, and left.  Just as she’d expected, just as she’d wanted.  She hasn’t the faintest idea why he turned up in the first place, or what he meant by _unfinished business_. 

She goes to deal with her neglected dinner, still bubbling gently on the heat.  Amazingly, it’s not burnt at the bottom.  She congratulates herself on having had the sense to turn it down to minimum and switches the ring under the rice back on.  She’ll eat dinner, drink her wine, and finish her letter.  She can talk through the day with Dr Burke, tomorrow.  She hates talking.  But she hates being benched far more.  So if talking’s what she has to do to get back, she’ll talk.  Properly, honestly, fully. 

Maybe then all the pain will go away.


	15. Losing everything is like the sun going down on me

Castle goes home on autopilot, barely registering his surroundings, pulls himself together sufficiently to eat dinner with Alexis, who’s still mad at him for sending her away all summer and consequently unwilling to talk beyond the basic social niceties necessary to eat, then to clear up and retire to his study.

Kate’s letter is still written across the inside of his eyes.  He can’t unsee it, no matter how much he’d like to, no matter how intensely he wishes he’d never read it.  No-one should ever see another person’s skin stripped off like that.  No-one should ever, _ever_ , see that sort of live-action dissection.  And now he has.  Being right is no consolation.  But if he’s totally honest with himself, he may be sorry he’s read it, but he’s glad too, because now he has at least some clue about what is going on in Kate’s head. 

He doesn’t see how he’s going to put this right. 

 _I was drowning under all your expectations.  I’m not Nikki._   Her friends had had none, been grateful for any inch of progress that she’d made.  Except there’s a much older meaning to _expectations_ , between a man and the woman he loves.  And that woman’s not Nikki.

 _Now I can start to move on._ Hmm.  That could mean any number of things, from _get back to the precinct without annoying writers_ through _move on from any chance of a relationship_ to _get over being in love._   He’s got no idea which it might be.  He knows which he’d like, because then he might have a hope to cling to.

 _Clean cuts are better than slow resentment._   She’d gone for the clean cut, sharpened a scalpel for surgery, because she thought, she who couldn’t see herself meeting the Nikki ideal – ideal only in her own head - any more, he’d slide from love into resentment.  He sees himself reflected in the mirror of her trauma-induced insecurities, and it’s the picture of Dorian Gray.

 _You’ll find another muse, soon enough._   She might as well have shot him: a bullet in his own chest might hurt less.  He hasn’t written anything of value – except letters to her that he never sent - since the day she sent him away, and he doesn’t currently expect that he will.

 _You’ll find another muse_.  Even if he did, which he seriously doubts, he wouldn’t find another Kate.  He won’t ever be able to find another Kate, and he doesn’t want to try.  But he doesn’t even know how to find this Kate again.

The last thing he does, before he goes to bed, is look up Dr Burke.  It’s not difficult: there he is, listed in the Directory of Psychiatrists, address and phone number given.  He scrawls it on a Post-It and hides it under his laptop.  He’s encountered enough problems in the last two months without his too-inquisitive family finding that and asking questions that he really, really does not know how to answer.

* * *

 

The September sunshine in the morning does not serve up improvement on the night before, and breakfast is a very silent meal.  Alexis departs for school with barely a farewell, and Castle looks around his vacant loft for anything that will keep him occupied until nine.  At nine, Dr Burke’s office will open.  At nine, Castle intends to talk to Dr Burke.  Not about Kate, exactly.  Apart from anything else, Dr Burke, if he is in any way professional and values his license at all, will not even confirm that Kate is a patient, and Castle does not at all want to explain how he knows that she is.  He wants to talk about how he, Castle, can help Kate, or at least avoid damaging her more.  He doesn’t want to know what _she_ needs to do, doesn’t want to be involved in that in any way without Kate herself issuing an explicit invitation, but he does badly need to know if he should try to see her or not, and if he can, how it should be handled.  What should his actions be, so that he’s not interfering with hers.  Never pushing into hers, never, _ever_ , going over her head.  And if the answer is not to go near her, then he’ll do it.  No matter how much he hates it.

At nine, he’s talking to a snippy receptionist who can’t seem to understand that he doesn’t want an appointment in person, he wants to speak to Dr Burke on the phone.  In the end, thoroughly frustrated, he does something he usually swears never to do.

“Look.  I don’t think you understand who I am.  I’m Richard Castle.  I wrote the best-selling Derrick Storm and Nikki Heat books.  I don’t want to come by in person because the paparazzi follow me around and I don’t want them seeing me visiting a psychiatrist.  Nor, I am sure, do your other patients want to be spotted by photographers.”

He feels like the arrogant, obnoxious ass the gossip columns used to make him out to be.  But it’s worked.  The snippiness has disappeared and there’s a distinct fan girl note in the receptionist’s voice.

“Why surely, Mr Castle.  I’m so sorry not to have understood your circumstances immediately.  It’s perfectly understandable that you would want a telephone consultation.  Of course I’ll get Dr Burke to call you.  Unfortunately he has appointments all morning, but he normally has some time in the afternoons.  I’ll make sure he calls you today.  I  do hope that will be acceptable.”

Now that he’s got what he wants, he can afford to be gracious, and he rings off politely, desperately wishing the day away, for it to be already afternoon.  His fountain pen catches his eye.

_Dear Kate_

_I read your letter.  I’m so sorry I read your letter, but it was there on your desk and when I saw my name I didn’t even try to stop myself.  I wish I had.  No.  That’s not true. I shouldn’t have read it but now I have I’m glad I did.  I understand a whole lot more now._

_I came to your door because I wanted to apologise.  I let everyone convince me that you couldn’t possibly have PTSD, and then I met your dad and he provided the clinching pieces of evidence: case closed, you’d sent me away because you didn’t care about me.  I was angry and I was hurt and then you showed up at the signing just as if you were perfectly fine, as if I’d just come back to you, go back to following you like a whipped puppy, and I was so furious with how you’d behaved that I didn’t even listen to you.  The only thing that registered was that you’d split with Josh, and even that didn’t make me change my view._

_And then I watched you walk away, and honestly, all I was thinking was_ Good riddance _,_ we’re finally done _. (I was lying to myself.  We wouldn’t have been done.  I’ll never be done with you.)  Until the truck backfired.  I saw you, Kate.  I saw you freeze and flash back and when I caught up with you…you were so white you could have been back in ICU, and you didn’t even know it was me there.  I think that’s what frightened me most.  But then you were gone._

_So I came to see you, to listen to you.  Understandably, you didn’t want to see me.  I know you lied to me: it was a good effort, but you can’t lie to me, I know you too well.  Not that it made much difference, since your reaction to something as minor, as banal, as common, as a slammed door told me everything I needed to know.  You zoned out, again.  You didn’t know I came in with you, guided you to the couch, stayed a little while.  I was looking for a book to pass the time until you – returned? woke up? – when I saw the letter, and then I saw my name.  So I looked.  I’m not proud of that.  Once I started reading I couldn’t stop.  Didn’t try to stop._

_Oh Kate. How does the song go? What have I got to do to make you love me?  What have I got to do to make you care?  I don’t love you because you’re the inspiration for Nikki Heat.  I love you because…well, just because.  There is no other reason._

_I want you back.  I need you back, Kate.  I’ll wait, if you want me to, however long it takes, however long you’re silent, however long you hide away.  Just come back.  Please, just come back to me._

_Love, Rick._

The ink has run, in places.  But the loft is silent and still, as quiet as a graveyard.

* * *

 

Dr Burke doesn’t ring until almost the very end of the afternoon, by which time Castle’s nerves are thoroughly shredded and he’s picked up his phone a dozen times to call to cancel, never quite doing so. 

“Castle.”

“Mr Castle.  This is Dr Burke.  I understand you wanted a telephone consultation?”

“Yes.”  Suddenly he doesn’t know where to start.  Dr Burke doesn’t say anything, a smooth, inviting silence stretching between them.  It’s a civilized version of Kate’s silences in interrogation.  The thought spurs him to speech. 

“I…wanted some advice.  I don’t know if you saw the papers, back in June, the reports of a Detective Beckett being shot?”

“Mmm?”

“You might know that I used to follow her around, for my novels?”

“Mmm.”

“She’s back in New York now but I know from her team that she’s not been allowed back to work yet because she failed the psychiatric evaluation, and I wanted to know what I should do about seeing her?  So I thought that it would be best to ask a psychiatrist.  I got your name from the directory.”

“Why do you want to see her, Mr Castle?  After all, if this detective is not at work, you cannot be going to follow her for inspiration.”  Ah.  He hadn’t thought of that, when he’d envisaged this conversation.  This Dr Burke, fussy formality aside, is clearly far too intelligent for comfort.  And his question is just hanging in the air, waiting for an answer.

“Er…” He doesn’t want to discuss his reasons.  It’s not he who’s in therapy.

“Mr Castle.  If you are not willing to be honest about your reasoning and motivations, then any advice I might be able to give you will be useless.  I suggest you consider that carefully, before looking for facile answers in a highly complex area.”  He hasn’t been rebuked like that since high school.  He takes it squarely on the chin.

“Doctor.”  He pauses.  Therapy’s not been a part of his life to date, and he isn’t sure what to do now.  “I…”  The smooth silence is back. “Before she was shot – right before she was shot – we were about to…” how to describe where they were?  “I was about to tell her how I felt.”  It’s the most neutral way he can explain.

“And that would be?”  Oh, the hell with it all.  Half Manhattan probably heard how he felt; what good is hiding it?

“I love her.”

“Mmm.  I see.  And what do you think this detective feels for you?”  That’s a good question.

“I…don’t know.  Before – I thought that she felt the same.  I don’t know now.  I hadn’t seen her for more than two months; she didn’t get in touch at all, and then she showed up at the bookstore as if nothing had happened.”

“And?”

“I was angry.  I didn’t want to listen.  She tried to talk to me and I wouldn’t listen.  So she left and then I watched her have a flashback  - I think it was a flashback – right there on the sidewalk.  She didn’t even know I helped her.”

“Mmm.”  Castle is getting rather tired of that noise.  “How did you feel then?”

“Frightened. Kate’s never not known when I’m there.  Upset.  Angry.”

“Angry?  With whom were you angry?”

“Me.  I knew why she’d left but I let all the others tell me they knew better, and I believed them.  But they were wrong.”  He blows out a breath.  “I went to see her.  To apologise. She wouldn’t let me in, then she had a panic attack when a door slammed somewhere in her block.  She’d looked me straight in the eye and lied and then a door slammed and she just…went away.  I got her inside and then I left.  I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Ah.”  Well, that’s a welcome variant on _Mmm_.  There’s a short pause.  “Mr Castle.  Are you absolutely certain that the detective could look at you?”

“Yes.  She looked at me at the book signing and she looked at me after the book signing and then she looked me in the eyes and lied.”  Another pause.  Dr Burke is clearly thinking.

“I am not going to advise you, Mr Castle.”  What?  What was the point of this, then?  “I cannot give advice about how two people will interact on the basis of one person’s story and without seeing both of them together.  However, it is generally felt in situations of this nature that if meeting a particular person is not, in itself, causing distress to the traumatized subject, then exposure to that person is not likely to cause further damage.”  Castle carefully unpicks that.

“So you’re saying that I can see her?”  There’s a somewhat exasperated sigh.

“No, I am saying that in _other_ situations of this nature, it would not have caused further damage to the trauma sufferer.  I am not giving advice on your specific situation.”

Castle thanks Dr Burke – he’s not sure for what - and ends the call no better off than when he began.  He has no idea what to do now.

Dinner is very nearly as silent as breakfast.  Until Alexis mentions, without particulars, that her English assignment is about the use of letter-writing in literature.  Not for the first time, his amazing daughter has sparked an idea to solve his problem.  He’ll write Kate a letter: not the letters he’s used to self-therapize (is that even a word, he thinks irrelevantly) but a real letter, that he can put in her mailbox or under her door.

Some time, and much rewriting, later, he makes a fair, handwritten copy: not his normal slashing, sloppy scrawl, designed to be as fast as possible to maximize the throughput at book signings, but the neater, sloping, italic hand that he very rarely needs to use.

_Dear Kate_

_I’m sorry._

_Please don’t throw this in the trash before you’ve read it._

_I’m sorry that I didn’t listen to you at the bookstore.  I’m sorry that I just showed up at your door without even thinking whether you’d want, or even be able, to see me.  Most of all, I’m sorry that I let others talk me out of my own beliefs._

_Kate, I should have listened to you yesterday, and now I’m asking if you’ll tell me what you wanted to say.  But because I’m not sure that you will see me, I’m writing this, so that if you can’t, or don’t want to, you’re not under any pressure.  Just write back, or text, and let me know if you’re prepared to see me.  I’ll wait, however long you need to take to answer._

_Castle_

No demands, no pressure, no expectations, no words of love to oppress her.  He’ll deliver it now, and wait for her reply. 


	16. Tryin' to wash away the pain inside

It’s another sunny September day, and Kate is thinking over the earlier session with Dr Burke.  The man’s good, she’ll give him that, but why does it have to be so…detailed.  He wants her to tell him everything, even things for which she simply cannot comprehend the relevance.  What does it matter, about her mother, right now?  She got shot, dammit, and all she wants – well, not _wants_ , but she can’t think of another word - to do is talk about the trauma and manage her unresolved issues with Castle.  But no, Dr Burke seems to want to start much further back.  She crossly tells herself that he’s the shrink, not she, and that if she wants to get back to a normal life she’d better get with his program.  But she doesn’t have to like it.

However.  This morning he had suggested to her that she should try short periods out of her apartment, in a rather more controlled environment than the main shopping areas. They had agreed on Central Park, in the end: apparently Nature is good for PTSD.  She supposes rather bitterly that that must be true, after all, squirrels, even in New York, don’t normally carry firearms.  She pulls herself together to go out.  Not heels, not for Central Park.  But she thinks with satisfaction that she can walk almost as well in heels as ever she used to, now.  She’s got this.  Or, if she hasn’t, quite, got this yet, it’s only a matter of time.

The rules of the game, as explained by Dr Burke, are simple.  Go for a walk in Central Park, and if something startles you or triggers a flashback then sit down on a bench and work through all the non-lethal things that might have caused it.  When you’ve had as much as you can cope with, even if that’s only ten minutes, go home.  She’d asked sardonically what to do if the something that startled her turned out to be lethal, and he’d laughed and pointed out that in that case she – or at least the NYPD health insurance - wouldn’t need to pay the therapy bills.  She’d laughed, too, genuinely amused by the black humour.

And now she’s doing it, strolling through Central Park in the sunshine, thinking about doing the same weeks ago in Saranac Lake.  There’s a sudden flash of light from something, and she gasps, startles, freezes.  But when it’s over, she finds a bench and tries, shakily, to think through what actually happened.  Which is not lying on the grass with a bullet in her chest.  She manages half an hour.  She’s happy with that.  Tomorrow she’ll try again, try for longer.

On the way into her block she empties her mailbox – she forgot to do that, yesterday – and once in her apartment sorts it out: bill, advert, junk mail, advert, formal letter, junk mail – what?  Formal letter?  She can’t remember the last time she got a letter that didn’t fall into the category of either bill or financial filings.  This clearly isn’t either of those: for a start, it’s hand-addressed.  Or it looks as if it is, anyway.  She doesn’t recognize the neat writing.  It might just be some new method of convincing unwary people to open junk mailings.  What she needs, she thinks, looking gloomily at the pile of adverts and junk already on the table, is the equivalent of a spam filter for her physical mailbox.  She opens the envelope without expectations, without qualms.

Three lines in she puts it face down on the table with frozen delicacy and walks away from it.

She puts the junk mail and adverts in the recycling, and doesn’t look at the table.  She makes herself a coffee, (she shouldn’t, but she’s had a shock, she justifies it to herself) drinks it at her writing desk, and doesn’t look at the table.  She pays the bill, balances her checking account, and still she doesn’t look at the table.

After a brisk lunch at her desk she goes back to Central Park.  Anything’s better than not looking at the letter face down on the table.  She’d almost swear it was looking at her, as intently as its author used to.

* * *

 

Castle is trying almost anything to distract himself from his phone, which has remained silent. When it eventually does ring, and he yanks it towards his ear, too fast to notice who’s calling, he’s shocked to find that it’s Gina, wondering sarcastically whether he intends to turn up to the meeting to discuss his publicity schedule, or whether they should just use a cardboard cut-out of him, which might be more use.  He supposes he’d better go.  It’ll take his mind off…things.

Except it doesn’t.  He nods in what he thinks are appropriate places, lets Gina and Paula sort it out between them, which is always far more efficient than if he makes suggestions, not that they would listen to him anyway – that bites, someone else won’t listen to him either – and is released holding a small sheaf of paper which is apparently his schedule for the month ahead.  As he looks through it on the way home it seems as if he’s committed himself to rather more than he’d have liked.  And there’s still been no reply from Kate.

* * *

 Kate’s sitting on a different bench in Central Park, breathing rather choppily.  She’s been out for well over an hour now, and the strain is beginning to tell.  She knows she’s done enough, she knows that pushing herself further – Dr Burke had been very clear about this, recognizing, within moments of meeting her, her need to go further, push harder, do more, do better – will actually make matters worse. 

She needs to go home.  But at home there’s that letter on the table, and she doesn’t want to read it.  She sits and considers which of Scylla or Charybdis is a preferable route to shipwreck.  Stay in the Scylla of Central Park, and in not too long she’ll lose it and not be able to recover quickly enough to prevent some kind – or interfering – person from calling the cops or a medic.  That’s not a place she wants to be.  It’s going to be hard enough getting back to the Twelfth without adding that.  Or she can set a course for home, and try not to drown in the whirlpool of emotion that reading the letter will bring back.  Whatever it says.  _Monster to the left of me, whirlpool to the right of me.  I used to shoot monsters;  I used to be able to swim._   The whirlpool at home at least offers privacy for the anticipated storm.

Still, once at home she delays as long as possible, fussing in the kitchen, making the perfect cup of tea, (she wants coffee) preparing vegetables for dinner even though it’s barely late afternoon, tidying her desk.  She half-seriously considers scrubbing the grout between the shower tiles.  Only when there is absolutely nothing more that she can do that she can convince herself is more important, more urgent, does she go to the table, and even then she sits for long minutes staring into space, not flashing back, but trying to gather the courage to deal with whatever the letter says, and whatever it causes her to remember.  Eventually she flips it over, barely touching the heavy paper, as if even its texture is likely to cause pain.

When she’s finished, she leaves it face up and goes to sit on the couch.  She notices with dull relief that there has been no freezing, no vision, no panic.  She has no idea what to do.  She makes dinner, automatic movements, no thought.  Eating doesn’t help.  By the time she goes to bed, she’s no closer to a decision: ignore it, or answer it.  And if _answer_ , how?

Morning comes, after a night punctuated by tossing wakefulness and half-remembered, disturbing, dreams: not of the shooting, but of other experiences: bombs, freezers, crazed people traffickers, airplane hangars.  She wraps cold hands round her necessary cup of coffee and tries to forget them.  She’s had enough of nearly dying.  Dying had been all too easy.  It’s coming back to life that’s hard.

She scrawls down the dreams and looks at the list.  Each one a case, each one a point when she’d – and often they’d – come close to dying.  Her subconscious clearly isn’t feeling subtle today.  How often has he saved her life?  How often in return, she, his?  Maybe it’s time to stop counting.  If there’s a competition for how near you can come to dying, or how often, she’s won, hands down.  She doesn’t find triumph in that pyrrhic victory.

Very carefully, very deliberately, she brings up the memory of Castle’s face, right back at the beginning, scruffy, stubbled, self-satisfied, smirking – and sexy.  She moves the image forward, smartened up – she wonders, idly, if the boys had had a word about appropriate appearances when dealing with witnesses and suspects and cops, or if he’d worked it out himself.  Less smirk, more smile.  Still sexy.  Roll the film forward again, past an alleyway where the hot embers of their strange relationship first flared into flashover, past a sun-drenched hotel in LA, to a bright June day in a cemetery in New York, looking across from a podium, and freeze the frame there.  Just freeze it there.  Don’t roll forward. Hold, until she can’t look at the picture any more, and lets it go, breathing shakily.  But she’s done it, held the memory separate from the next moment.  Just like Dr Burke had said she would be able to.

And if she can do that, then she can look at his face in the flesh.  Probably.  She’d had the guts to go to the book signing, and she’d made it through that.  She’d looked him in the eye, and lied, and got through that too.  And she’s read that astounding letter, apology and atonement both.  She’s not a fool, and she’s perfectly certain that this letter was not dashed off, an impulsive act, instead each word had been weighed and measured.  Words are, after all, his business, and he uses them with the same sharp precision as a surgeon’s scalpel.  Still, sincerity shines out.  Crafted, undoubtedly, this letter, but not a sham.

But.  It doesn’t deal with the heart of the matter.  She’s not Nikki.  She’s not even a cop, right now.  Nothing in this letter indicates anything other than the neutral desire to listen.  And while explaining may, in time, bring absolution, seeing Castle will remind her of everything she’s lost: health, strength, the ability to do the job she loved, her friends.  And him.  Such a careful letter, each word chosen for effect, and not one word of anything other than neutrality. 

Maybe neutrality is what she needs.  The scalpel cut is already made, maybe this will suture it.  Emotion doesn’t mix with surgery.  She’ll see him.  It won’t take long, brief explanation of the flashbacks, briefer summary of how he triggered them, still shorter account that she’s been benched, so there’s no chance of Nikki Heat.  Then they’ll go their separate ways: he’ll find another muse and she’ll still, privately, read his books, and never, ever, let him know she does.

She picks up her own pen, shuffles paper into a neat pad.

_I will meet you at the Cocoa Bar at 21 Clinton Street at 4.30 tomorrow._

No salutations, no signature.  Both, whatever name she might use for either, carry connotations.  _Castle_ brings back the past.  _Rick_ – she’s never called him that except with an acerbic edge.  _Beckett_ – she’s not that cop, now.  And _Kate_ says far too much, and none of it bearable: he’s never called her _Kate_ except in moments of extreme emotion.   She’s not willing to imply anything, in any way.  Neutral.  He’ll recognize her writing.  He’s seen enough of it on forms.  A coffee bar she’s never been to, no memories, no implications.  Neutral, again.  She folds it into an envelope, decides that she’s okay to deliver it herself.  But before she does, she checks the publicity schedule on his website and makes sure that Castle won’t be there.  It’s school hours, so no chance of running into Alexis.  She can deal with Martha’s histrionics, if she has to.

Mission accomplished.

* * *

Castle returns from a long afternoon of book signing at the Barnes & Noble on East 17th, hand cramped and the rictus of a forced smile still scored across his mouth.  He’s tired, and Kate hasn’t got in touch.  He’d known she wouldn’t come, known that she wouldn’t be next in the line of hopeful women – men don’t ask him to sign their copies, they just buy them.  But still, he’d looked along the line, and every time he’d seen a tall brunette he’d hoped for an instant, till disappointment met him with the smiles on their faces.

He picks up his mail without looking, reaches the loft and dumps it on the table, goes to pour himself a glass of wine to smooth the ragged edges of his day.  He supposes he’d better do something about dinner: Alexis will need a meal.  He doesn’t really want to eat.

While it’s cooking he looks through the envelopes: junk, junk, broker statement, (he opens that: he likes the numbers on the bottom) something for his mother that he needn’t know about and doesn’t want to, fan mail that’s somehow got to this address, more junk – hang on.  Fan mail?  That never comes here.  Who’s got this address to write to?  No stamp, so someone knew where to find him. 

Someone knew where to find him.  Only one person who knows where to find him would write, rather than visit or call.  He rips the envelope open, frantic to find out what she’s said, terrified to read it.

It’s one dispassionate line.  No names: his or hers; nothing except a time, a place.  Not a place he’s been to, not a place that means something in the context of their forward-backward, currently non-existent relationship.  Well, she’d hardly choose somewhere near the precinct, in the circumstances.  But still, it’s so much more impersonal than he would ever have thought: _his_ Kate Beckett used to have drive and power and passion; more personality than he could ever have encompassed in any character.  And then it had all drained out of her with her blood, into green grass on a bright summer day.

He reads it again, over and over, searching for any subtext, anything that might show him the personality behind the emotionless words.  There isn’t one to find.  Even the writing is small, neat, regular and uninformative. 

_Dear Kate_

_I’ve got your letter – rather, note.  Letters tend to have a little more content. It’s so cold, it freezes my heart.  I wrote you a letter that exposed – well.  That’s actually the thing, isn’t it?  I wrote you an apology.  It didn’t expose anything, because the letter I shouldn’t have read said that you were drowning in our (my?) expectations, so I didn’t want to put any more on you._

_Still, it hurt: a single unsigned line.  I might as well have been some business acquaintance, a lawyer or accountant, or a used-car salesman, that you feel you have to see out of necessity, and can ignore thereafter.  I don’t want it to be that way._

_But then, it’s not up to me, how it might be, is it?  I had a chance to listen to you when – for the first time ever – you actually wanted to talk, and there needn’t have been anything to interrupt us; and I was hurt and furious and wouldn’t hear you out.  If there’s no way back, because I’ve hurt you too badly – so badly that you looked me in the eye and flat-out lied, then…  Then I don’t care.  I’ll make it up to you.  I’ll get you back, somehow, some way.  Whatever it takes, however long.  I can’t watch you walk away from me again._

_How does the same song go?  What have I got to do to be heard? Listen to me, Kate: I don’t want Nikki Heat; I don’t want a new muse.  I just want you. Any way, every way, you are._

_Whenever, wherever, however you make your stand, I’ll be there, beside you._

_I love you._


	17. Sorry seems to be the hardest word

Ryan and Esposito are dealing with the normal run of New York murders, nothing interesting, nothing weird.  The new Captain has kept their noses firmly to the grindstone, and since they’re short-handed there’s plenty to do.

And there, right there, is why it’s no fun.  They’re short-handed, and the hands that are missing are Beckett’s.  Also missing are the snark, banter and drive that made the three of them, and later four, the best Homicide team in the city.  It’s not their fault she’s missing, but they haven’t exactly done anything to find her, either.  Every day that passes they’re less sure how to start.

They haven’t contacted Castle, either.  The memory of what he said stings every time Esposito thinks of it – and he’s reminded every time he looks across the bullpen at Beckett’s empty desk.  No-one’s dared sit at it, yet.

“What we gonna do, Ryan?”  Esposito’s unusually quiet, guilt and defensiveness slithering under his words.

“ ‘Bout what?” 

“Beckett, dumbass.  What’re we gonna do about seeing her?” 

Ryan shakes his head.  “Dunno.  You think she’ll wanna see us?  You think she’s seen anyone?”

“Nah.  Didn’t tell you, but a bit after she got back here she called Lanie.” Esposito stops.  He’s had to listen to Lanie’s guilt too. 

“And?”

“Lanie chewed her out for not calling.  Beckett didn’t take it well.”

“You don’t say,” says Ryan sarcastically. 

“That’s the thing, Ryan.  Not like that.” Ryan flicks up a worried glance.  “She just fell apart.  And when Lanie went round Beckett didn’t answer.  Lanie hasn’t heard from her since.”

“Oh.”  That’s not the Beckett they know and love.  In an entirely comradely, cop, unspoken way.  “So you think we should try to go see her?”

“You got any better ideas?”

“Nah.  But...I think we should call first.  She might not be in.”  Or, he thinks, she might not want to see them.  After all, she hasn’t wanted to see them for the previous three months.

Ryan dials Beckett’s cell and is not entirely surprised to find it goes straight to voicemail.  He leaves a brief message to the effect that he and Espo think she should come out for a beer with them, and stops at that.  It’s a start.  They need the team back together.  It doesn’t feel right with just two of them.  And being unemotional cops, who don’t do sappiness, neither of them admits to missing Beckett out loud.

* * *

 

Kate listens to Ryan’s message with some bemusement and not a little trepidation. Bemusement is relatively easy to unpick: after Lanie – who hasn’t been in touch – she hadn’t expected to hear from the boys, still less to receive invitations to share beers in bars.  Any bars.  Ryan’s suggested the Old Haunt, but that, she feels, for the same reasons as she’d picked an unknown coffee bar, is too close to home, in many senses.  She leaves that and considers the other side of the Beckett coin: trepidation. What’s she scared of?  The boys’ reaction to her missing summer; their view of her failing the psych eval – she’s sure they know what she failed, by now – the fact that she’s almost sure to have an...episode...in the noise and bustle of a busy bar, and they’ll see it and either pity her, be worried, or be contemptuous of her cowardice.  None of these is in any way palatable.  Fact is, she realises, she’s quite simply scared of going out.  It would be so much easier to stay home and hide, not face her...what?  What are they now?  Co-workers, colleagues, team, or friends?  She doesn’t know.

She parks the whole issue.  Today, at least, she has bigger things to worry about, as 4.30 inexorably marches closer.  The nearer it gets, the more she wishes she’d simply said _no_.  But then she wouldn’t achieve either self-absolution or a clean break.  The first is necessary for her to continue recovering: she needs to know she’s given it her best shot. (she shudders at the phrase)  The second – well.  Um.  It may not be what she _wants_ , but it’s likely the best available option in the circumstances.  In which case, better get on with it.  Ducking unpleasantness rarely works for long.  Certainly it hasn’t worked any time these last three months. 

And on that note, it’s time to go, leaving a little early in case of...unexpected delays.

* * *

 

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­She’s there a bit early: orders her own coffee.  She’ll need to get used to that again: may as well start now.  It’s good coffee, if a little pricy.  She sits and drinks, carefully moderating her breathing, slow and deep.  It’s not too busy, and she’s not near the windows.  She drinks her coffee, rather too quickly, tries to find words to say what she needs to in the dregs in the cup.

Castle reconnoitres for a short time before entering: a safety measure to ensure he’s got an exit route if it all goes bad on him.  Or on Kate.  He spots her tucked into a corner table with her back to the wall, head slightly down, clearly looking at her cup or the table, rather than her surroundings or for him.  Her cup.  She’s got her own coffee.  He always buys her coffee.  Bought.  Bought her coffee, before... And now she’s got her own coffee.  It’s right up there with _you’ll find another muse_ , in terms of sharp pain.  All these small things, and in every one he feels her slipping away from him _._   Maybe she already did, three months ago.

He trails over to her table, already sure that this won’t go well, says _hey_ softly.  Kate looks up, a brief flick of shadowed gaze and then eyes down again. 

“Do you want another coffee?”  _Please, please let us do something normal_.  He’s tense just waiting for the answer: somehow he feels that whatever she says will determine how hard this is going to be.

“No, thank you.”  His heart drops hard.  But she hasn’t finished yet. “May I have a herbal tea, please?”  The polite formality is subsumed in the rush of relief that she’ll let him get her something.  But still –

“Herbal tea?”

“Please.  Green tea.”  Okay, that’s not Kate’s usual.  Maybe she’ll explain.  Maybe, as so often, she won’t.

When he comes back she’s still staring into the bottom of her cup, fathoms deep in reserve and, under that, tension.   Her shoulders are braced, a crease she didn’t have before this summer between her eyebrows, eyes clouded, her hands knotted tightly round the empty cup.  When she thanks him she sounds remote, as if she’s already someplace else.  His heart sinks again.  This is not starting well.

Kate is trying to gather her thoughts into something that will make the most sense in the shortest possible time.  In the end, all she can think of is just to dive in and hope to resurface rather than drown.

“I left because every time I saw your face it triggered a flashback to the shooting.  I couldn’t deal with the memory.”  He doesn’t say anything.  Especially, he doesn’t say _do you remember everything?_   He doesn’t want to interrupt this explanation, given in a chilly, concrete tone that he suspects is damming up a whole broad river of emotion.  “I couldn’t deal with everyone’s worry.  I thought going up to the cabin would help.  When I came back I failed eval.  I’ve been benched for four weeks more.”  She looks up for the first time.  “No more Nikki.  You won’t be following me if I’m not there. ”  She looks down again.  There’s no more to be said.

It’s not enough.  It’s too short and too blunt and too cold, and it doesn’t explain anything at all except the stripped down skeleton of why she left.  But her hands are locked tight around her tea cup, and her breathing is suddenly shallow and too fast and her head is back down and she looks like the tea cup is the only thing in the whole wide world that’s holding her in place.

“Why herbal tea?”  _What a stupid, silly question, Rick_.  Of all the vital information he wants to know, all the things he wants to say, he asks about tea?  But magically, it seems to be the right thing to do, because her hurried breaths even out.

“One cup of coffee a day, still.  Apparently caffeine’s a stimulant.  I never would have guessed that.”  Her sarcastic tone is almost, almost like it used to be.  It’s too good an opportunity to miss.

“Don’t they know that limiting you to one cup of coffee a day is cruel and unusual punishment...” - he pauses for effect –  “...for the profits of Manhattan’s coffee bars?” and she _smiles._   A genuine,  sardonic, Beckett smile. (not a Kate smile.  Definitely, definitely, a Beckett smile.)

“Clearly someone didn’t get the memo.”

“There’s always decaff.”  She zings a glare right between his eyes, but swiftly looks away again.  So.  Partway, but not there.

“Decaff is not coffee.  Decaff is dishwater.”  Stay with this.  Anything to stay with Beckett as she ought to be.  Even if she still can’t look at him, the zip and flash of banter is a start.

“Good decaff  is just as good as the real thing,” he says provocatively, luring her deeper into the argument.  “You’ve just never had it.”

“It is _not_ ,” she says forcefully.  “Decaff is a con.  It pretends to be coffee and it isn’t.  It’s a fake.”  She stops suddenly.

He jumps in, desperate to stop the thought that’s writing itself across her face.  “You saying that decaff is the equivalent of a comic compared to a book?”  She’s distracted, slightly, forced to response by the question.

“More the difference between fluffy fiction and classics.”  She’s pulled a little away from the thought that had stopped her cold. 

But the moment of normality has passed.  Her tea is almost done.  She’s laid out the blunt words and all he’s asked about is _why tea?_   It’s not just the tea that’s done, it’s them too.  Her limited ability to deal with noise and bustle is rapidly reaching expiry, and she knows it’s time to go home.  She starts to reach for her purse, jacket; gather up the small pieces that are all that’s left of her life.  She’s holding it all together just fine, until Castle looks at her and says “You’re not _leaving_ , are you?”

“Yes, Castle.  I don’t think there’s anything more for me to say.  I’ve told you why I left and that I can’t be Nikki any more.  You’ve heard me out.  Time for me to go.”

“ _No!_ ”  He doesn’t mean it to be so loud, so...impassioned.  “You can’t just walk away from me.”  _Again_  is unspoken but completely audible.  “Don’t go yet.”

“I have to go home.” Perhaps a little truth will help, smooth her exit, her escape.  “I’ve been out for as long as I can manage.  I need to go home before” – she grits her teeth on the words – “anything goes wrong.”

Castle hadn’t thought of that. Still, there’s a lot more explanation that he could do to hear.  A few sentences isn’t in any way sufficient to cover the ground that they’ve lost over the summer.  “Can I escort you home?” he offers smoothly.  _Normal_ , he thinks, _just be normal.  Act like you would before any of this ever happened._   Kate looks deeply uncertain.  He takes the opportunity to pre-empt the expected protests, holding her jacket for her to slip into, but terribly, frighteningly careful not to touch her.  He doesn’t know what a touch will do, though he wants so badly to pull her in close, tuck her into the curve of his arm, reassure her that it’s not about Nikki; hasn’t been about Nikki since round about the second day of shadowing her.  She can’t depart, can’t leave him, before he’s had the chance to say some things too.  Probably starting with another round of _sorry._

She still hasn’t responded, and he takes that as permission – he can always seek forgiveness later – and follows her out to flag down a taxi and direct the driver to her apartment.  She’s not arguing as he slides in beside her, taking considerable care to shut the door gently – no sudden slam, no evocative noises, nothing that might upset her, trigger anything.  He doesn’t know if this lack of argument, objection, is good or bad: whether she is content – not _happy_ , that’s a step too far – for him to accompany her, or just too wrung out to either care or complain.

There’s no talking in the cab, nothing to break the silence during the entire journey: tension stretching out between the seats: a lot of thinking circling between them and remaining unspoken.

Kate’s not sure how this happened.  One minute she was about to leave, by herself; next minute she’s in a cab with Castle, who appears to be quite determined to ensure she doesn’t travel alone.  The strain of not being able to look at him for more than a flicked second or two – it’s different imagining his face in a quiet apartment from trying to hold it together in front of the reality in a busy coffee bar in central Manhattan – is beginning to scrape along her nerves, make her skin twitch.  All she really wants is to curl close in and let him protect her from flashbacks, pain, failure; she’s chewed her lip to shreds of skin, and headache is biting, bleeding in behind her brow.  She doesn’t understand this: his lack of curiosity and questions; and then his emotional refusal to let her leave him behind (again); his immovable desire to see her home, but she’s survived the day this long, so she can manage this: albeit of the half-hour or so they’ve been in each other’s company a sum total of half a minute or so has actually encompassed looking at him.  By contrast, she could have described with an artist’s precision the grain of the table top, the delicacy of the china of the tea cup, the exact hue of the tea at any stage from surface to dregs.

The cab has reached her block. She fails to produce payment for the cabbie swiftly enough to forestall Castle; exits with haste; but Castle’s right on her heels.  If he must be there with her, that position, at least, is easier to cope with.  No prospect of _seeing_ him, if he’s behind her.  A thought skitters across the surface of her mind: that she wouldn’t be able to _see_ him if her head were against his shoulder, if she were wrapped in his arms: and is as soon gone as noticed.  No point wishing for things you can’t have, and shouldn’t want.  She may have made some progress, in that he hasn’t triggered an instant episode,  but she’s reluctant to test the limits of that mercy.  Even were that not so, there are all the _other_ matters.  Clean cuts.  Castle will see the sense in that: she just has to explain it to him better.  As if Dr Burke didn’t make her talk enough, she thinks miserably.  It’s not him, it’s her: or more specifically the lack of her previous self. 

Castle’s following Kate until, he decides firmly, he either receives some better answers or she tells him to leave.  So far, neither has shown much sign of occurring.  But if she tells him to leave, he’ll be back tomorrow; he’ll persist, insist, as far as he can, due weight given to her injuries.  Still, she’s been in his company for the best part of an hour and she has neither zoned out nor run away.  Well, mostly not run away.

And now they’re at her door, and Kate didn’t look at him once in the elevator, stared fixedly at the floor while he listened to her force slow, deep breaths, all her concentration directed fiercely inward; and she still hasn’t told him to go.  He’s being as unobtrusive as possible: staying out of her direct sight line, no speech, no touch. 

And now he’s followed her inside, and the very first thing she does is kick her heels off, which he’s never seen her do before.  Of course he’s seen her without heels, just never this desperation to take them off, this haste.  More’s changed than he’d ever thought possible.  He closes the door quietly, for the same reasons as earlier, but at the click of the latch she spins round and seems to be surprised that he’s there.  Something else flickers through her eyes before they drop away: nervousness?  Relief?  She still hasn’t said _go_.  So it must mean, she must mean, _stay_.  But perhaps he ought to check.

“Kate?” She emits a tired, unwelcoming _mmm_.  “Did you want me to stay?”

“Stay, don’t stay, doesn’t matter.  As you choose.”


	18. A time to keep silence, and a time to speak

Of course he chooses to stay, wants to stroke the crease between her eyebrows away, soothe the tiredness and the pain.  This doesn’t seem like physical pain, but the same hurt he’d seen two years ago, burned deep into her mind and soul, leaving her coiled around it and building walls to keep the world at bay.  That time he’d caused it, his fault; this time...he still caused it, but it wasn’t his fault: critical distinction without a practical difference.  All to do again: they’d found a place to stand together – he has to believe that, still – and then hot lead had smashed it down and crimson blood had washed it all away.

She’s sitting on the couch, slumped and hunched into herself, arms across her chest.  He doesn’t think she knows she’s shielding the entry point where the scar must be: protective and defensive in one gesture.  She simply looks crushed under the weight of the wounds.

“You look as if you could use a drink.”  He’ll sit here and exude comfort (like a plug-in air-freshener, he thinks with an unwarranted quirk of amusement) until she tells him to leave and means it.  There’s a difference between her general preference for solitude, which he’s successfully ignored for three years, and the note in her voice that will mean that it’s all got too much.

“There’s wine in the fridge, or coffee.  As you choose.”  It’s not enthusiasm, nor yet acceptance: more of that chill, dispassionate, uncaring tone, the same as her note, the same as she’d used to tell him those few sentences of explanation.  The same as she used to ask him not to come to the hospital.  _I see you, Kate.  This is blocking, defence: the Hoover Dam, without flow releases, holding back the entire Colorado River.  How much can you hold, before the pressure forces it all to spill over and the dam fails?_

He knows from the reading he’d done back when she first left, and then revisited three days ago, that one of the recommended strategies is to confide in someone you trust.  She may have a therapist, but that’s not the same as a friend.    

Yes. A friend.  He can do that: be there when she needs him, listen if she talks, not force her to if she doesn’t.  She hates talking, but then, she doesn’t have to, with him.  She doesn’t need to: he can, usually, read her expression and her mood without her saying a word.  Comfort, consolation, reassurance.  He can give her those, without limit: there are no boundaries to his capacity to provide those if it will help to bring her back.

She needs a friend.  It doesn’t seem like she’s been in touch with Ryan, or Esposito, or Lanie, and it’s likely that even if she has, if they reacted like he had – guilt slashes through him – she won’t have tried again.  She needs a friend, and right now he’s the only game in town.  No point in thinking about anything more, no point in trying to push further.  This isn’t, can’t be, their previous charged, dangerous, sexually aware relationship.  There’s no room, presently, for the undercurrents, the flirtation and innuendo, the constant tension that burned between them; flared up in an alleyway.  She doesn’t need pressure, she can’t deal with love.  He’s no idea how she feels about him now, except that she hasn’t thrown him out.  So try to hold that emotion back, and let friendship suffice, until that’s not enough for her any more.  He just has to trust that, in time, she’ll want more.  _A place to stand, Kate, and someone to stand with.  I’ll stand with you._

He searches through her kitchen till he finds two glasses, picks the sole bottle of white wine out the fridge, already open with one glass’s worth missing.  He pours, recorks the bottle and puts it back in the fridge, places one glass in front of Kate and keeps his own in hand, sitting some distance away and out of direct view of her current position.  The silence in the apartment envelops them.  Strangely, it’s less tense than the coffee bar: still, he wonders how long she can fail to speak, fail to react to another presence breaching the emptiness of her apartment.  She’s picked up her glass, but not sipped; she’s cradling the bowl with both hands, fingers interlaced, thumbs locked; its base slightly below her sternum.  Just like the tea, it’s holding her in place.  He waits.  He’s got good at that, he who used never to wait at all.  He’s learned how to wait, this summer.

The words she finally speaks are slow, dragging, redolent of the pain of her injuries.  “I couldn’t bear all of it.  I felt I had to be happy, glad to be alive.  Grateful.”  Sharpened claws of resentment rip through the final word.  “And I hated it.  The pain, the helplessness, the indignity, the dependence.  The _expectation_ that I’d be grateful for all the help, all the time. Grateful for being alive.”   He’s left gut-punched and breathless by the depth of her bitterness, and yet he thinks that he understands some of it.  She’s never depended on anyone for anything, all her adult life, and then she was forced to it.  He knew how much she resented needing help.  He knows how much she despises feeling weak.

“I thought I had to stop you all worrying so much.  I had enough pain of my own, without having to carry all of yours too.  If I went, none of you would need to worry.”  He winces again, an uppercut landing this time: how could she ever have thought that?  He’s watched her carry them all, one time and another, and she doesn’t believe that they would be happy to carry her, just once, in return?  _He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother_.  “I wouldn’t be burdening you.  I wouldn’t have to see all of you worried and scared, because you wouldn’t _be_ worried or scared.  I needed time without you all watching, weighing and measuring my progress, reacting to every tiny change, up or down.” 

He sees her stop, sip, an amount barely sufficient to wet her lips, wince at a sting where it touches the raw flesh she’s bitten open.  She really doesn’t understand that they were only scared because they thought they’d lost her, only worried because they cared.  And they hadn’t understood the extent of the pressure they had put her under, so much pressure not to show them her weakness, so much pressure that she felt she had to leave. 

“I didn’t think any of you would be as upset as you were when I left.  I wasn’t exactly doing anything useful.  Better to be elsewhere.  Let you all move on, come back when I was better.”  He strangles his increasing urge to speak, to correct all her misapprehensions.  If he interrupts, she’ll stop.  He has to hear it all: has to walk behind her on the twisted path of her insecurity which has led her so far astray. 

“And I needed to be out of the noise, the people, the hospital: away from everything that triggered the dreams and the flashbacks.  There were so many triggers…”  That trails off into tangible misery, words slipping away, just like she did, without notice.  Then something changes, her mood flips.  She’s suddenly furiously angry.

“You _dared_ to tell me you were angry because – you said – you had to _watch_ me die. _You have no idea._ ”

The last time he heard that, in a sultry, sexy voice that sent his world into freefall, was the first time he knew he wanted her.  This is appallingly, terrifyingly different to that moment; that early day when everything changed.  Everything changed again, three months ago: everything’s changing now, but he doesn’t think it’s for the better.

“Trust me on this, Castle, it’s a hell of a lot worse when you’re actually doing it.  And then I died again, and again, and _again_ , every time something triggered the memory, in high-definition 3-D with surround sound _and no off switch_.  I remember every single second of dying, and I’ve remembered it every flashback since.  I’ve died a thousand times, since that day.  You think _you’ve_ got a reason to hurt?  _You have no idea_.” 

Her bitten out phrases hit him with the whip-crack of the rifle shot: knockout, knockdown.  She surges on, vitriolic words that she’s clearly repressed finally spraying out: shrapnel ripping through the air.  “Tell me again, Castle, how many times you watched me die, to be so _hurt_?  Compare that to how many times I’ve _done_ it.  The coward dies a thousand deaths - isn’t that the quote? - the brave man dies but one. Guess I must be a coward, then, because I’ve surely died a thousand times.  I didn’t call any of you because I couldn’t admit to being a coward.  Couldn’t admit to all the triggers for all the flashbacks.  Seems like dying over and over changes you like that.”

He can’t say a word, pinioned by her rage and agony.  He has no idea.  He can’t have any idea: even his writer’s imagination cannot take him that far.  It wasn’t he bleeding out and dying on a bright summer day.  She remembers everything.  Every instant of how she died.  He’s surprised she’s here at all, sober and undrugged, but then, her strength, her ability to bear pain, has always seemed limitless.  Until she found her breaking strain, under the weight of all their expectations.

“You can go now.” It’s weary, all rage burnt out.  “You’ve had your explanations, your chance to listen.  You’ve heard the story.  Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted, the whole story?  The end, Castle.  Story’s over.  It’s done.  You can leave with a clear conscience.  No unfinished business.”  It’s back to the cold concrete façade: no room for any crack in the dam.  But she remembers everything.  That means she remembers his words.  It’s not a consolation, in the face of all that dammed-up anguish.

“And if I don’t go?”

“That’s up to you.  The story’s _over_ , Castle.  Nikki’s finished.  You’ll find a new muse, soon enough.”  Each icy word carries another fragment of shrapnel tearing into him, each misconceived idea the spawn of PTSD and injury; the destruction of her self-belief.  She isn’t looking anywhere near him, hasn’t since she started to talk, now staring out the window at some far horizon that only she can see.  Her wine’s on the table beside her, barely touched.

“The story’s _not_ over -”  He hasn’t finished that sentence, but she rolls right over him.

“Get real, Castle.”  There’s venom in the words, but it’s not clear at whom the poison’s being spat.  “ _There is no more Nikki_.  She died when I did, three months ago.  All that’s left is this: scars, self-pity and psychiatry.  No reason for you to be around.  No cop for you to follow.  No Nikki.” 

“Who says I want Nikki?”  He can’t help the outburst.  She’s so fixated on this stupid idea that all that matters is Nikki, that all she is, all he wants, all he loves, was and is Nikki.  It’s _not true_ and he doesn’t know how to make her see that.  The acrid taste of disbelief seeps through the air, taints it.  _Leave that for now, Rick.  It’s not a battle you can win._ But still he says it: “I don’t want another muse.”  There’s an edge to the last word.  It’s not a joke, now, not  a word used to irritate.

“Go home, Castle, and stop pretending to yourself and to me that there’s a different ending to this story.  You wanted Nikki.  Nikki’s dead.  Mourn, recover, and move on.”

There’s dead silence when she finishes, street noises falling into the hush like tolling bells.  There are so many things wrong in everything she’s just said that he can’t choose where to start.

And so he doesn’t choose to speak.  Words, which have always before been successful in his life, are not sufficient; useless and meaningless; a twig against the cataract of her unleashed emotions.  Instead he stands and walks over to her, sits, not quite near enough to be touching her, waits a fraction to see what will happen.  She doesn’t look at him, but she doesn’t flinch away or zone out either.  _Next step_.  He places an arm around her shoulder, lightly, cautiously, in the same neutral way he’d used on the street, ready to pull it instantly away should she react...badly.  Equally ready to pull her instantly into him should she _not_ react badly.  Except he can’t do that, because what she needs, _all_ she needs, is a friend.

She doesn’t know what to do or say, any more.  She’s lost her temper and revealed so much more than she’d intended, so much hurt and resentment machine-gunned at him, and now she’s drained and tired and Castle still hasn’t absorbed what it all means, taken the hint and left.  She doesn’t see how she can make herself any clearer.  _Story’s over, the end, last chapter._   He should be gone.  When he stands up she thinks he’s got the point, shrinks a little further into herself, remembers that the professionals will get her through this, even if there’s no-one else she can call on.

Except he isn’t aiming for the door.  He’s heading for the couch and sitting next to her and then there’s an arm around her shoulders and _no no no_ this is not supposed to be happening.  She can’t have this; can’t be a clinging vine relying on someone else’s strength.  Fixing her problems is a challenge for the shrink and for her, not a pick-up game on a public park.

“I think you need a friend, Kate.  Here I am.” 

A friend?  She chances a look at him.  He looks entirely serious.  And, which is very strange, there is an arm around her – Castle’s arm around her - and she isn’t thrown into flashback, doesn’t feel the pressure of his emotion she’d felt every day in the hospital, that had scorched the air in the café as late as this afternoon.  He’s…just switched it all off.  She drops her gaze again.  She tests the idea in her mind.  A friend.  Someone who isn’t going to pressurise or stress her but will just be there if – _get real yourself, Kate, when_ – she needs it.  A friend would be…helpful.  Which leads to a different question, can Castle simply be a friend?  That’s a lot more dubious.  She knows how he feels.  Well, how he said he felt.  A lot could have changed, over the summer.  And thinking about it now, she badly wants, and needs, a friend. 

But then there’s how she feels.  Which is … not friendly, precisely.  She’d wanted a clean cut so that she didn’t have to watch any relationship fall apart, break on the rocks of finding that what they both felt had developed and relied on a wholly different basis, before she was shot: one which wouldn’t stand this test.  Um.  Still.  Maybe _friends_ is a place to stand, to find out who she, he, (they? is there a _they_ again? Maybe for a while.) is now; afterwards.  Perhaps they can find a new accommodation, until it all fades naturally.

Castle watches rapid thoughts skim across Kate’s face.  Mostly she looks entirely dubious about the whole idea, but there are several other emotions flickering under the uncertainty.  And she hasn’t removed herself from his arm, yet.  Or removed his arm.  He stays quiet and waits, never changing the weight of the undemanding arm slung so very casually around her.

“Just friends?” 

“Just friends.”  There’s a long pause while she considers that.

“ ‘Kay.”

He preserves perfect placidity, at least externally.  Inside he’s cheering.  He looks closely at her face and realises that she’s completely exhausted by her catharsis and it’s very probably time for him to go.  Especially – he glances at his watch and winces - as he would normally have been home for dinner with Alexis and his mother about an hour ago.

“Ryan called, left a message.  He wants me to go for a beer with him and Esposito.”  It’s not exactly enthusiastic.  In fact, it’s distinctly negative.  “I don’t want to.”  Now it’s dispirited.

“Mmm?”

“I don’t need to listen to another version of _you didn’t call_.”  There’s a story behind that line: he can hear it.  “I don’t want to explain everything.”  Ah, same old Kate, who’s made not talking to her friends an art form; her privacy a prison.

“So do what works for you.  Sleep on it.  Maybe you’ll have an answer in the morning.”

She sighs wearily, clearly disbelieving.  He thinks she should see them, but it’s not his place to say.  On the other hand, he’s failed to answer a number of messages from them, over the last three days, and this – well, later – might be a good moment to return the calls.  And not incidentally, find out what was behind that _didn’t call_ comment.

“I have to go, Kate.  Mother and Alexis will be wondering where I’ve got to.  Let me know when you want to see me.”

“ ‘Kay.  Therapist says I’m supposed to go into Central Park, often as I can stand it.  Maybe…see you there sometime?”  It’s so hesitant, so reluctant, so uncertain that he’ll actually accept, it bites at his heart.  _Friends._

“Sure.  As long as Gina or Paula don’t have me at some publicity function.”  He’s slow and easy and absolutely definitely not going to yell _yes yes yes, anytime, just say when._   “Text me next time you go.  Promise I’ll answer.  But now I really have to get home.  Goodnight, Kate.”

And then he’s stood up, collected his jacket, and gone, leaving her considerably confused by the afternoon but a little comforted.  She drinks her wine, and considers.   Friends.  She can do _friends_.  It’s a slower, gentler ending.


	19. With a little help from my friends

Castle arrives home to a chorus of _where were you Dad/ where have you been, darling_ from his family.  He seems to have missed dinner, though if his mother has done the cooking that will, most likely, have been a good thing.  He rummages through the fridge in search of anything edible, carefully ignoring that he hasn’t answered the questions.  Unfortunately, neither his daughter nor his mother is prepared to allow him that.  His mother is, naturally, the most persistent.

“Where have you been, Richard?” 

Um.  His family have not exactly…approved…of  Kate’s behaviour over the summer.  Even if he didn’t tell Alexis anything much, he’s fairly sure his mother did.  Certain comments Alexis has made him wonder what she knows and, more pertinently for the next few weeks or months, what she’s thinking, but sympathy for Kate wasn’t noticeably high up the list.  His mother, for possibly the first time ever, has been wholly on his side.  Then again, all either of them know is that Kate told him not to come to the hospital after he’d visited every day, then disappeared for three months, and returned without telling him.  It’s not surprising that they’re angry about it.  They’re very nearly as protective of him as he is of them.  There’s a lot of mending of fences to be done, and none of it’s going to be easy.

It’s going to be difficult to explain that he’s been with Kate without explaining both that he read a letter he should never have seen – he suddenly remembers that it clearly wasn’t the first, and holds on to that thought for later - and a great deal more of Kate’s psychological state than he has the right or the inclination to discuss.  And while he’s not in the habit of letting either his mother or his daughter tell him how to conduct his romantic life, he doesn’t really want to have a discussion about it either.  The afternoon has left him rubbed raw, and, he suddenly thinks, he’d like some chocolate ice-cream and another glass of wine.  Nutritional balance be damned, he needs some comfort food.

“I went to a coffee bar to people-watch” – well, it’s not entirely a lie, he watched Kate, she’s people – “and lost track of time.”  Which is definitely a lie.  He didn’t do _that_ until he took Kate home and she actually started to _talk_.  His mother looks thoroughly sceptical.

“Really?  There must have been some very interesting people in this coffee bar.  Or were you just moping round cuddling your misery like you’ve done for the last month?  It’s time you moved on, kiddo.”

“You’re right, Mother.  It is time to move on.” 

His mother’s open-mouthed, and blessedly silent, surprise would be worth the price of top-seat admission to any Broadway show.  Alexis is looking equally astounded.  No need to tell them that the _moving on_ he’s referring to has nothing to do with abandoning any hope of being with Kate and has everything to do with moving on from his anger into something a lot more productive.  With Kate.  He’s not angry any more.  Upset, oh yes, he’s still upset by what she did and how she did it, but now he understands so much more he can see why she left.  He still cannot begin to imagine how anyone can stand reliving their death, over and over again.  It’s so much easier to start to forgive once you understand.  But if only, if only she’d told him any of this three months ago instead of simply leaving without a word, they could have avoided a whole arsenal of pain.

Ice-cream finished, family silenced, on the topic of Kate at any rate: they’re rarely silent overall, Castle takes his wine and retires to his study, to call Esposito.  Not Ryan.  He thinks that three days of feeling (Castle hopes) thoroughly guilty will have left Esposito in a more receptive, and talkative, mood than previously.  Castle hasn’t forgotten Kate’s comment about _didn’t call_ and he fully intends that Esposito should explain it.  He doesn’t intend that Esposito’s going to get an easy ride, though.  He’s still feeling guilty about his own behaviour, and he’s not inclined to excuse Esposito for the same when he can’t exonerate himself.

“Esposito.”

“It’s Castle.”  There’s a short silence, which feels a little nervous.

“Yeah?”

“Saw Beckett today.”  He remembers not to call her _Kate._   That might lead to questions for which he certainly doesn’t have answers.  There’s an indrawn breath and then Espo’s words fall over each other in their hurry to get out his mouth.

“How’s she doin’?  What was she like?  We called her but she hasn’t called back.”

“I know.  She told me.  She _also_ told me that she hadn’t called back because she wasn’t up for another round of being told _you didn’t call_.  You want to explain the story behind that line, Esposito?”  There’s a nasty bite to his words.  When he starts, Esposito sounds as guilty and unhappy as Castle could have wanted.

“ ‘Bout a week before she was supposed to start back, Beckett called Lanie.” 

Lanie, huh?  And suddenly he remembers that this was in the letter he shouldn’t have read. 

“Beckett wanted the name of a shrink.  Lanie was, um, a bit upset that Beckett just upped and left and never got in touch all summer” – Castle knows where this is going already, and _a bit upset_ can be accurately translated as raging mad – “and she, er, called her out on it.” 

“Called her out on it?  Care to explain that a little further?”  Castle’s borrowed the mildly interested tone he’s heard Kate use in interrogations.  Usually just before some suspect is ripped to pieces.  From the sound of Esposito, the similarity is not lost on him.

“Lanie lost her temper.  Yelled for a bit.  You know how she can be.”  He does.  But he’s not in the mood for excuses.  “But Beckett didn’t yell back, like she usually did.  Lanie said Beckett fell apart.  And when Lanie went round she didn’t answer the door.”  Ah.  That hadn’t been in the letter.

“And none of you tried again.”  That falls into the silence like a mortar shell.  “You knew this when?”

“After you called.”

“I see.”  He sees a lot.  He sees that it had taken Kate almost three weeks back in the city to realise that there was something really, really wrong.  He sees that on realising it, she’d turned to her friend to seek professional help – a rare, not to say unique, glimpse of Kate actually doing something sensible, where her well-being is concerned – and Lanie had reacted just as he, Castle, had: very, very badly.  Which he understands.  What he can neither understand nor excuse, right at present, is why Lanie hadn’t done more to find out what was wrong, when Kate didn’t answer the door.  Lanie has a key, and could have got in if necessary.   That’s a question he might ask Lanie, in due course.  Possibly shortly after he’s finished with Esposito.

“So now you’ve got to worrying about Beckett, rather than being – what was it?  Oh yes.  _Pissed_ at her.”  He can hear the wince, and takes considerable satisfaction in it.  But Esposito’s not entirely defenceless.

“Like you’re perfect in all of this, Castle?  Wanna tell me exactly what happened at your book signing?  You expect me to believe that Beckett turned up and it was all hugs and hearts and flowers?  Like hell.  I had to listen to you after you found out she was back and hadn’t told you.  You lost it with her just the same as Lanie did, an’ don’t you try to lie and tell me different.  The only reason you’re this mad with us is ‘cause you’d have done just the same as we did except you saw her lose it in the street.  So quit with the guilting, because you ain’t no angel either.”

Castle’s brought up short.  Esposito’s shot straight to the heart of his own guilt, sniper-accurate.  It’s time to stop taking out his own feelings on the others.  Kate’s going to need all of them back on previous terms, soon enough.  And Esposito used to be a Special Forces man.  He must know a bit about gunshot induced trauma.

“Yeah.  You’re right.  Look, I’m sorry I got on your case about Beckett.  I’m just a bit…wound up…by it all.”

“ ‘S okay, bro.  We get it.”  It’s the cop’s acceptance, everything understood, nothing spoken.  “Now, how’s Beckett?  Spill.”

“Not good.”  He stops.  It ought to be up to Kate what she wants to explain to her team. But they deserve to know something.  “Just…not doing so good.”  That’s as much as he feels he can say.

Esposito swears vilely.  There are some phrases there that Castle’s never heard before: automatically he makes a note of them for future use.  “You called it, bro, back when.  Shit.  We could have found her.”  The apology doesn’t need articulation.

“I’m not sure that would have worked.”  Castle’s had a chance to think about this.  He doesn’t _like_ the conclusions he’s reached, but he’s pretty sure that they’re correct.

“Say what?”

“I think” – he knows, because he read her letter, but he can’t admit how he knows – “she was just under too much pressure with all of us wanting her to recover.  And if she was back here, she might have worked out what was wrong sooner and got treatment, but I’m not so sure.  She should have talked to us, but when does Beckett ever talk about anything?”

Espo chews that over.  It’s clear from the tone of his silence he’s not convinced, but also that he can’t come up with a good argument otherwise.  “Water under the bridge now.  So whadda we do?”

“Beckett needs her friends.  Her team.  Right now, she probably doesn’t think she’s got you.”  He doesn’t say _she’s got me_.  That’s still too tentative, too delicate to touch.  “I think…don’t push her to do things.  Just let her know you’re there.”  He stops.  He really doesn’t know what he’s doing here.  But Kate needs her team, even if she’s benched.  They’re her family, as much as anyone can be, as much as she lets anyone be.  “I don’t know what you should do.  What did you do, back in the day in the Army?  Surely you know something about dealing with this?”

“We never saw much of it.  Tended to happen when men got back home.  Anyway, this is Beckett.  She’s not Army, she’s a cop.  ‘S different.”  Espo considers.  “When I went to the hospital, she was fine when I just treated her like I do at the job.  As long as I wasn’t talking about shooting.  She went weird on me when I said I’d still outshoot her and when I told her about the new Captain.”  A thought hits Espo.  “You told Beckett you’re not allowed back?”

“No.  I haven’t told her anything.  No chance.”  Some of his pain spills over.  “She can’t look at me for more than a minute, Espo.”  He doesn’t want to say that he’d triggered her flashbacks.  That’s too much truth to bear, on top of the afternoon’s discussion.

“Bro.  She’ll get through.  Beckett’s hard-core.”  It’s what Espo’d said before.  He’d been wrong, before.  Castle doesn’t argue, though.  No point.  Let Esposito have his hopes: chances are he’ll have them dented soon enough.  Round about the first time he sees Kate.

“Espo.  Maybe call Beckett again, leave another message, make it clear it’s not about the summer?  Then let her get back to you or Ryan.”  It seems like the only thing to suggest that he’s fairly sure won’t do further damage.  There are just so many possibilities for screwing this up that he can’t think of a way that wouldn’t.  “Let me know how it goes.  If I get a chance, I’ll put a word in.”  He’s dancing very delicately around how often he hopes that he’ll be in the right place to have a chance.  “Night.”

“Night, bro.”

Esposito dealt with, and matters back on track with the boys (he knows that if he’s squared things with Espo, Ryan will follow along), it’s probably time to speak to Lanie.  Though after the wholly deserved way Esposito yanked him up short, maybe it’s time to stop the guilt-tripping and have an adult discussion, not a playground fight.  Kate needs friends – plural – not a bunch of quarrelling, point-scoring, my-pain-is-greater-than-yours idiots. There’s enough guilt and pain going around to drown the lot of them.  Time to move on.  He dials.

“Dr Parrish.”

“Lanie, it’s Castle.  I saw Kate this afternoon.”

“Oh.”  That’s not the reaction he’d expected.  That’s not so much unenthusiastic as actively unhappy.

“Something wrong, Lanie?  Are you okay?”  There’s a click.  Lanie’s cut the call.  When he redials it goes straight to voicemail.  He leaves a message for her to ring, that he wants to talk to her, that he needs her help; and rings off hoping that Lanie will understand the subtext to mean  _it’s okay, I’m not going to start a fight over Kate._   Maybe, if she doesn’t call back tomorrow, he’ll go to the morgue and see her.  Well, if he can fit it round publicity stunts and (hopefully) walks in Central Park.

One last thing to think about.  The letter he shouldn’t have seen mentioned previous letters.  But he hadn’t got any letters, ergo, she never sent any.  Hmm.  He didn’t send any letters, but he’s got half a drawerful that he wrote.  Logic suggests that if he didn’t get letters it doesn’t mean they weren’t written, or, untangling that into English, that Kate was writing letters that she never intended to send.  Curiosity flares.  Those letters could fill a lot of gaps.  But the chances of him ever seeing them are, he’s sure, rather less than the winter temperatures on the Antarctic ice shelf, though if the opportunity came up he’d certainly take it.  Unofficially or otherwise.  Still, it’s not exactly unexpected that she didn’t send these letters – certainly if they were as naked as the one he’d read - and it’s not as if he had been planning to show his letters to Kate.  Thinking of which.

* * *

_Dear Kate_

_Your explanation – both parts - was worse than I ever imagined it could have been.  How have you kept yourself sane all summer, dealing with that on your own?  I wanted the story: I didn’t expect apocalypse.  No wonder you broke, no wonder you left._

_I was right about why you left, and I should have believed in my own knowledge, not been swayed by others.  I should have believed in you. Maybe I should have come to find you, but then you said I triggered flashbacks, in the coffee bar, so maybe it’s best I didn’t. Maybe if I’d…what?  Another round of so many maybes, and still all of them wasted.  No point in maybes, Kate, what’s done is done._

_If only you had told me, in the hospital, before you left, or any time at all.  I’d have stayed away, waited for you, I’d have understood.  You don’t need to protect me, I can do that for myself.  I’m really quite capable of it, most of the time._

_And now.  Here we are, back at the beginning again.  You need a friend, more than anything else.  Much as I want more, I don’t think you’re ready.  When I listened to you today, it was almost too much.  It’s such a long way back, from where you are.  But there’s a different song, now, that I can hear, playing on repeat in my head.  “But I’m strong, strong enough to carry him”. You’re not heavy, Kate._

_Let me be your friend, until you’re ready for more.  Please don’t run away from help, this time.  I’m here, to stand with you._

_Faith, hope, and love, and the greatest of these is love.  Love endures all things.  Love never fails.  I won’t fail you, Kate.  Faith, and hope, that you’ll recover, though your suffering might be longer than I’d ever have wanted to contemplate: but however long it takes, I’ll be there.  Because I love you.  I won’t fail you again._

_Love, Rick._


	20. I'm counting on you, to carry me through

The morning is wet and miserable, and as Kate wraps herself round the sole cup of coffee that she’s allowing herself, still following the medical advice, most days (there are occasional days when one, or more, is simply not enough, like yesterday), she thinks that unless the weather improves quite astonishingly today is not going to include any walks in the park.  Which means that she has no good reason – the words _any excuse_ skitter through her mind and are swiftly dismissed – to contact Castle.  Which is quite unreasonably disappointing.  _Friends, Kate.  Not an instant-installation support beam._   She deals with the disappointment by slowly savouring each sip of good coffee, made properly.  At least that way she’ll have the aroma, when the cup is done.

She doesn’t know what to do with herself.  She’s not due to see Dr Burke again till tomorrow, when there are a considerable number of things she thinks she needs (not wants) to discuss.  Starting with her outburst yesterday.  That had surprised her: she hadn’t understood how much pent-up resentment and bitterness she was carrying, the volume of nasty emotions she’d been repressing.  She thought she’d written them out, over the summer.  Clearly not.  And then she’d unleashed them, all over Castle.  Who hadn’t, astonishingly, backed away from the unpleasant truth of what she felt.  Feels.  Which makes her feel guilty, because that means that she’d made a major mistake when she asked him to leave in the hospital and didn’t tell him why.  She can’t decide whether the mistake was asking him to leave, or not telling him why.  Or possibly both.  Another thing to discuss with Dr Burke, who on current performance will suggest – but only when you feel ready, Kate - she (confesses? That’s an uncomfortable word.) discusses it with the object of the decision.  That would be Castle.  Urgh.  Why does Dr Burke have to make her do this?

She doesn’t want to go walking in the rain.  She always, always ends up with drips down her collar, and she hates that.  Nature should stay in its place, which is not trickling down the back of her neck.  She doesn’t even know where she left her umbrella and anyway – she looks out the window again – it’s not just raining, the wind is up too.  A little frisson of worry tickles down her spine.  She hopes this isn’t going to become a storm.  She’s not ready to deal with storms.  But.  But.  She’s getting better. (she has to believe that)  So she can plan, not just react.  If there’s going to be a storm, she can guard against it: she knows what she needs.  She goes to her bedroom, draws the curtain, finds an extra pillow and a spare blanket, lays both on the bed.  She might still be terrified and flash back, but she’s done something to prepare against it.  She might have to cuddle into her bed and cover her ears with the pillow, and she might still sob like a child with a nightmare, but now she’s made a safe place to do it. 

Control will give her confidence, and confidence will give her control.  It’s a virtuous circle.  If she can control even one thing, it’s a place to stand.  She’s got this.

While she’s been thinking about that, her phone has been beeping.  It’s the first morning she’s put her phone on and kept it on since she’d called Lanie.  It’s the first time since she’s come back that she’s thought that she can bear to be in touch with anyone: that she’s not felt the need to be completely un-contactable.  She carefully doesn’t examine the reasoning behind that action.  It’s raining.  There will be no walk today.  Still, if it stops raining, she might want to call - someone.  A…friend…might call her.

She’d ignored the phone, because the need to build herself a storm-shelter had been more important.  But there’s no storm yet, and her shelter is done.  No excuse to back away from the phone.  Besides which, if she wants to get back some more control of her messed-up life, she needs to stop running and start facing things.  The phone is at least a small thing to face.  She doesn’t need to do anything about it, if she doesn’t want to.  She just needs to see who it was, and listen to any message: not even at the same time, if she doesn’t feel up to it.  She’s very grateful to whoever invented caller ID.

Hmmm.  It’s Ryan, again.  Well, his last message was relatively friendly.  What’s up now?  He only called yesterday.  Anyway, Ryan’s relatively easy to deal with.  He doesn’t tend to have a temper or get uptight about things.  She can listen to his second message without too much tension.  She presses the voicemail connection.

“Beckett, Ryan.  If you wanna come for a drink any time you’re ready, let us know when and where.  Time you caught up on the bullpen gossip.  Karpowski’s found a new boyfriend, and you won’t believe who.”

Kate’s more than a little intrigued by Ryan’s message.  Apart from the fact that there isn’t  anything else to think of on a wet morning in Manhattan, the last she’d heard Karpowski was dating some over-muscled fireman with – apparently – a significant deficit in the brain department which was – again, apparently (she grins wickedly) – compensated for by a significant surplus of…other assets.  Hmm.  _Her_ preference has always included intelligence.  _Stop._ She doesn’t want to contemplate her recent romantic history. (Really? Her history’s been about as romantic as heart surgery.  Another non-accidental word choice.)  One who was her boyfriend and one who – wasn’t.  _Stop there._

Back to Karpowski’s new interest: a considerably more interesting thought than the rain lashing the window.  Kate wonders who on earth it could be, caught by overwhelming curiosity, just as Ryan, with Esposito’s enthusiastic connivance, had intended.  She can’t think of any obvious candidates round the bullpen.  It gnaws at her all morning, gradually nibbling away her disinclination to meet the boys, to go out at all.  Finally curiosity wins out.  But still, she doesn’t phone, instead texts.  Less risk of difficulties, with a text.

 _Ryan.  Meet you and Espo at 7 day after tomorrow. Finnertys, 2 nd and E14th. _It’s cheap, it’s not too far from home, and she’s never been there.  Perfect.  She doesn’t want to go the same day as she’s had what’s likely to be a pretty intense therapy session: even the least intrusive sessions have left her stripped bare and exhausted.  She won’t be sociable after that: she’ll be sensitive to the tiniest little thing and dangerously emotional.  It’s going to be hard enough meeting Ryan and Espo without that.  And tonight is too early.  Too soon, after yesterday: she’s not inclined to run the risk of off-loading like that again.  Certainly not in a public bar.

The minute she’s sent it, she wishes she hadn’t.  Actually making the decision to see them leaves her struggling with all the reasons why she’s scared to, why she thinks that they’ll pity, or despise, the person she is now.  But it’s too late to recall it.  And now she has two days of trying to occupy herself while worrying about what might happen when she meets them; and whether Lanie will be there; and whether she’ll have to explain anything, or everything, and…and…and.  Too many ands, but only one Kate.  It’s only mid-morning, and at this rate she’ll be a psychological wreck by lunchtime.  Maybe…maybe if it all gets too much she could take a…friend.  She can decide that later.  But the thought makes her happier.

She makes herself a cup of camomile tea, and takes it to her desk.  She’s sick of herbal tea.  It doesn’t taste of much, it’s pallid and pale and sickly in the cup, it doesn’t lift her.  In short, it isn’t coffee.  She wants to be able to drink coffee whenever she likes, she thinks crossly.  Back to her written homework.  Therapy.  Something.

_Dear Castle_

_I’m so sorry._

_I should have trusted you to understand, back in the hospital, and instead I sent you away without a word of explanation.  I was too scared to explain.  I couldn’t stand you thinking you had to stay, even once you wanted to leave, out of pity. I’m not good at words, and I thought anything I could say would hurt you more than simply leaving._

_Every time I saw you it hurt more: too much dying, too much resentment.  I’d still have asked you not to come, but I should have told you why.  Perhaps then we wouldn’t be in this tentative dance, trying to work out if we can even manage to be friends.  But I need a friend, just now. If you can forgive enough to be a friend, I can try not to be stupid enough to run away.  Again._

_I can’t promise that, though.  I can’t promise that the flashbacks won’t bite the next time I see you.  And I can’t promise that if that happens I won’t need to be elsewhere.  But I’ll tell you.   Somehow I’ll cope with telling you._

_Looking at you for any length of time – which seems to mean more than half a minute - is still too much.  I should tell you that.  Maybe I’ll manage to, next time I see you._

_That’s not something I thought I’d be writing, a few days ago._

_I still don’t understand why you turned up at the door, or why you wrote you wanted to meet.  I’m not even sure why I said yes.  I was going for a clean break: no drawn out unhappy dissolution of whatever we nearly had.  Explain what I had to, and walk away, suffer the pain and move on.  Except you wouldn’t let me.  Followed me, even though I wasn’t encouraging: a bit like it was back at the beginning, really.  And now you’ve listened to the worst of it, and still haven’t backed away._

_You will, eventually.  You’ll realise that there’s no more story, and you’ll leave.  No matter what you said, kneeling over me.  But by then I’ll have recovered, at least from the shooting, and I’ll have my team back, though it’s not likely it’ll be the same as it was before this summer.  So I’ll get past it.  When I miss you too much, I’ll read your books, and I probably won’t cry.  You’ll never know, if I do._

_But right now I need a friend, and even though I should stop this now, before we all get hurt again, I can’t.  You’re likely the only friend I’ve got.  Even though I think this friendship comes with a time limit, I need it.  Need you._

_I still love you.  But I still can’t deal with it: probably it will take me longer to deal with it than you’ll be prepared to wait.  So I’ll watch you walk away, in time, and I won’t cry when you do, not where you can see me, and you’ll never know about any of this._

_Love Kate._

There’s no storm.  But she’s curled around her pillow, under the blanket and the comforter.  She stays there a long time.

* * *

Castle has also looked out at the driving rain and experienced a pang of disappointment.  In his case, however, there is no doubt about why, and no attempt to fool himself.  He’d been looking forward to a nice walk with Kate – well, um.  Possibly it wouldn’t have been nice.  Interesting, very likely.  Informative, maybe. (he can hope)  Intense – pretty certainly.  But almost definitely not _nice_ .  Especially as he has to keep everything he feels, everything he wants to say, everything he wants to do, locked down and stowed away.  He can’t hold her.  The best he’ll get is an occasional chance at a neutral arm slung round her shoulders.  It’s hardly enough, but it has to be enough.  Based on yesterday, she can’t look at him, she’s carrying an Atlas-burden of guilt, resentment and trauma, and he’s not entirely convinced, passed physical notwithstanding, that she’s anything like fully fit.  He has to keep his hopes and dreams and desires to himself.  _No pressure_.  Pressure’s what drove her out the city in the first place.  Well, that and Kate’s instinctive, immediate, reaction to run away and deal with her troubles alone.  Before she could really walk, let alone run, in this case.  The thought comes with a certain bitter amusement.

She needs protection, of a very specific and careful kind.   She’s admitted to needing a friend, though not in so many words.  Still, he’d like more information and discussion than he’s so far achieved.  Starting with a longer and more honest conversation about where they were, before.  About the summer.  One outburst from one side of the story does not solve all the unspoken, poisonously festering, issues, even if it covered most of the main ones.  He needs to be heard, too.  He may only have _watched_ her die, which is indeed not in any way comparable to doing it and then reliving it, but he’s dimly perceiving that he isn’t wholly past that experience either, nor is he yet wholly capable of forgiving her for the debacle that the summer has been, though he’s trying.  Maybe he needs a neutral party to talk to, to work out how he feels.  It’s not enough just to love her, he has to forgive in full, if there is any chance of moving forward, and he hasn’t managed it, if he’s honest with himself.  It’s just not that easy.  He may not be angry, but he’s still pretty well hurt.  He parks that thought to mull over later.

It’s still quite early.  He used not to be a morning person, forced himself to wake early for Alexis’ sake.  Since June, he hasn’t slept well, and most days he’s risen early, unable to stay settled.  It’s a habit he wouldn’t object to breaking.  Though he supposes that if they ever do manage to come through this perfect storm of actions, emotions and admissions, he’ll still want, or have, to wake early.  Kate _is_ a morning person.  His mouth twists unpleasantly.  That’s a thought that’s run several miles too far, too soon.  Any line of thought that involves Kate and him in any situation beyond friendship, currently, is too far: will only lead to problems later.  Shortly.  And now.  But he finds it very hard, to see her in such need and not to offer her everything; not to offer her even the same level of physical comfort that he’d give his daughter or his mother; not simply to wrap her in and hold her close and shield her from any gust of wind.  

He isn’t sure he can be neutral, if he touches her any further than the loose arm of yesterday, and even that took all his self-control: he’s not sure that all his love wouldn’t overwhelm him, scare her, pressure her to run again.  It’s not fair, he thinks childishly, that all this happened.  It’s not fair, that some unknown sniper shot her, and with her all their chance to be something more, something better.  It’s not fair, that it’s all to do again.

If it’s still raining at lunch time, maybe he should call her.  Just a friend, making sure a friend is okay.  Right.  Yeah, right.  Who’s he kidding?  He’s desperate to see her, talk to her, be with her again.  Yesterday has only fed his addiction, which three months’ cold turkey hasn’t cured at all.  But he can pretend.  He can act like it’s just friendship.  His mother’s taught him plenty.  And meantime, there are other matters he needs to attend to.  His Gina-enforced schedule, for a start, which he’d better look at.  Being late for Black Pawn is one thing.  Being late for his fans is just plain rude, and very detrimental to his royalties.  Visiting Lanie, for a second.  And finding someone neutral he can talk to, as a possible third.  He’s not wholly convinced by the last.  He hadn’t exactly enjoyed his discussion with Dr Burke.  He looks up his schedule and discovers that he’s not due anywhere until three, and, conveniently, it wouldn’t be too much of a detour to go via the morgue.


	21. I can't stand the rain

The morgue is cold, what with the need to keep the corpses cool and the drop in the outside temperature, and by the time Castle’s made it down to Lanie’s domain he’s wishing he’d added a sweater under his too-light jacket.  He’s carefully timed this so he can offer to buy Lanie lunch: he thinks that might sweeten her mood, get her to talk to him. 

When he discovers her carefully slicing a Y-incision into a body that doesn’t have much of a face left, what with the hole in it, he waits quietly until she puts down the scalpel – he doesn’t want her to either jerk and cut herself or to make any sudden moves at him – and then speaks.

“Hey, Lanie.”  She whips round, the expression on her face so unencouraging it could have been Kate the first day he forced himself into her life. 

“What the hell you doing here, Writer-Boy?  Who let you in?”

“I came to buy you lunch.  Seeing as we didn’t get to talk last night.”  That’s a little edged, but he wants Lanie to talk to him.  He wants to patch up all these fractured friendships, before the rip’s too long to sew.

“Don’t have time.  Got this autopsy to do.” She’s turned back to her faceless corpse, reaching for some instrument that was probably invented to remove brains via nostrils in Ancient Egypt.  Curiosity momentarily overcomes other considerations. 

“What’s that do?”

Lanie growls.  It’s not enticing.  “It removes the balls from irritating visitors.”  That’s not friendly.  Time for something a bit blunter.  He still has to show up for this signing at three and he wants this in some way resolved first.

“Lanie, what’s up?  I wanna talk to you.  I don’t wanna shout.  Espo slapped me around enough about yelling last night.  I don’t need you doing that too.  C’mon, come for lunch.  Your man on the slab there won’t mind.”

Lanie doesn’t look receptive.  And she’s near enough to the scalpels that tugging her along doesn’t seem like a good plan.  “C’mon.  I’m paying.  Or I can stand and talk to you right here.”

“Or you could leave.  Now I understand why she got so irritated with you.  Do you never just take a hint and go?”

“Nope,” Castle chirps cheerfully.  He hasn’t missed Lanie referring to Kate as _she_ , though.  Hmm.  That’s odd.  Time for an intervention of his own.

“Are you still mad at Kate?  For not calling all summer, I mean.”

“No. Yes.  Sometimes.”  Well, that covers pretty much all the options.  Not exactly helpful.  Try again. 

“Are you feeling guilty you yelled at her?  Because I got pretty mad at her, too, and I didn’t try to hide it.”  Lanie’s reach for her instruments is halted when she spins round in amazement.

“ _You_ got mad with Kate?  You never get mad with Kate.  Even when you should.”  What does that mean?  When should he have got mad at Kate?  Another thought for later.  At this rate he’ll need a week to get through the list of thoughts that are waiting for later. 

“Yeah, I yelled at her.”  Lanie’s words start to tumble out, her normal New York twang reasserting itself as she speaks.  “She dropped off the grid for more’n two months, never called, never wrote.  Of course I was mad.  I thought she’d just ignored that we’d be worried.  It’s not like it was a couple of days, like she often does.  Didn’t ever think that girl’d be stupid enough to try to deal with everything on her own.”  Castle carefully says absolutely nothing about that.  Yet. 

“So when she called me I was really mad with her, and I wouldn’t listen to her.”  He knows that tale, inside out and upside down.  “And then she just collapsed, and when I went round she didn’t answer.  And then Javi told me she’d been benched and you’d seen her lose it in the street.  I got it all wrong, and I’m her best friend.”  There’s a guilty-feeling pause.  Castle knows that story too, none better.  “So I’ve been waiting a coupla days for her to get over being upset with me and then I was going to call.”  The last sounds a bit defensive.  Seems like Lanie’s been putting off something unpleasant – like apologising to Kate, and admitting she was wrong.  What _is_ it with all his friends?  None of them ever seem to talk to each other properly.  Not that _he’s_ particularly good at it, when it comes to Kate.  He turns his attention back to Lanie.

“I thought the same.  Far as I knew, she was still with Motorcycle-Boy.  Even when she said they broke up” – Lanie splutters – “Didn’t you know that either? I wasn’t interested in what she had to say.  So I just watched her walk away.   And then this truck backfired and she completely froze up and didn’t even know I was there.  That’s the only reason I knew anything was wrong.  If that hadn’t happened I wouldn’t be here talking to you.”  There is one other point, though.  “Why didn’t you just use your key and go in?”

“ ‘Cause the one time I did that before Kate flung me out on my ass – literally,  I slipped when she shoved me out the door - and took a month to even speak to me outside official channels.  The bruises on my ass when I landed lasted nearly that long.  A repeat wouldn’t have helped anyone.”  Ah.  Yes.  He can see that.  Not something he’d have needed to worry about, he supposes.  He’s not smirking.  Much.

Lanie looks somewhat happier than she did when he walked in.  She’s acquired a hint of an expression that Castle last saw when they were picking up books, cosmetics and nightwear to take to the hospital.  It’s a mix of thought and mischief, liberally laced with smirk.  Though she still looks mostly guilty and unhappy too.  He doesn’t query it.  Lanie back to (relatively) normal is probably the best ally Kate could have, (well, except him) and besides which, whatever Lanie may be planning he is relatively sure that it would be safest not to have any idea about it.  That way he’ll be out of the firing line (he winces at the phrase) if it all goes wrong, which is certainly very possible.  He’s not going to get involved in any reconciliation discussions between Kate and Lanie.  That’s a short route off a very high cliff.  Lanie’s efforts at interventions carry considerable risk to the neutral bystander.  Ha.  He’s not neutral.  He just has a well-developed sense of self-preservation.

“Do you want some lunch?  I’ve just about time still before I need to go.”

“Nah.  I really do need to finish this guy.  There’s five more backed up behind him.”

* * *

When Castle exits the morgue it’s still fairly wet and miserable outside.  No chance of any diversions before he has to get to the signing, at least if he wants any lunch first.  Still, no harm in being friendly.  Well, probably.  He knows he’s pushing, slightly.  But you’re allowed to be worried about your friends, as long as, in this case, he doesn’t show it.  Anyway, it would be normal, for before.  And that’s what this is, a way of getting back to normal, just like it used to be, though without the undercurrents.  Or at least, without quite such obvious undercurrents.  He taps out a text, while he’s waiting for his lunch order.

_Don’t you like walking in the rain?_

A reasonable time later, there’s a reply.  Clearly Kate is not sitting around watching her phone.

_No.  No walk today.  Unless it stops raining._

_If it does, why not walk by my signing session?_

_Come and watch you signing what? Books or chests?_   On a text, it’s just so easy to fall back to the old sardonic, edgy banter, Kate doesn’t even think about it.

_Why, I’m shocked that you could think that.  Books, of course.  If you need evidence, come by._

Kate considers that.  She hasn’t really been out today, a very brief trip to the store for necessities and supplies excepted.  The apartment is becoming a little confining.  But still, the noisy atmosphere of a Castle signing, full of pretty, unscarred women, is not attractive.  And it’s still pouring.

 _When does it finish?_ Maybe if it were finished, it wouldn’t be so bad.

 _6pm._ No, that’s full on rush hour, far too noisy and busy and probably full of triggers which would damage or destroy her fragile control.  There’s sensible desensitisation, as prescribed by Dr Burke, and then there’s stupidity.  That would hit stupidity right in the bullseye.

 _Nah, past my curfew._   But it’s disappointing, all the same.

 _Not your bedtime, surely?_ That’s a bait she isn’t willing to take.  Friends, remember?  Everything taking them past that is a step too far, just now.  She takes a mental step back, distancing herself.

 _Too noisy, that time of day.  If it’s not raining tomorrow I’ll let you know if I’m going to Central Park._   Meaning – please don’t come to the apartment.  Too much scope for emotional outbursts, in her apartment.  At least if there are to be any more of those she’ll control her volume in public.  Presumably also Castle has some thoughts on the position.  She’s not sure what he thinks, because he hasn’t actually said anything about it.  One apologetic letter, all about not listening, one emotional outburst about her not leaving the cafe without him, and one session of listening to her vent her resentment and fury with the whole situation, during which he’d somehow cancelled any emotional reactions of any kind at all.  Cop senses say there’s more to this than that, coupled with that last text.  Insecurity whispers that being friends is simply a way out, and the text an automatic response.  Friends for a while, then he’ll gradually disengage.

Well, that’s a brush off.  Maybe his last text was just a hint too far.  But it was so easy to fall back into old habits.  He needs to be more careful, but the give and take was so like it used to be that he couldn’t help himself.  And now he’ll spend the whole of the signing thinking about Kate and knowing she won’t show up, though certainty of outcome will not stop him forlornly hoping.  And he will absolutely definitely _not_ go home via Kate’s apartment.  Absolutely not.

Which is undoubtedly why, at half-past six, he is standing outside her door, trying to decide what to do: knock, or not knock.  Not knock, as advised by common sense, is winning out, until a rather delicious smell of apple pie oozes out from round the door frame and insinuates itself into his nose.  The thought of apple pie - and maybe ice- cream? – effortlessly overcomes the idea that this may not be such a good plan.  So he knocks.

Kate has been cooking.  There’s not a lot else to do on a wet afternoon, if you’re benched, if you can’t go out in the city for a reasonable length of time, and although she’d never admit to it in front of the boys or Castle, she actually quite enjoys it, occasionally, when she has time.  She’s also quite good at it.  So when she’d gone to the store, she’d got the ingredients for apple pie, and a casserole which she can make and then reheat the leftovers tomorrow, when she won’t want or, depending on how the day goes, have time to cook.  Whilst the pie is cooking, she curls up with a book and more of the despised herbal tea (well, it’s hot.  It’s the only good thing about it.) and tries not to fret about the coming evening with the boys.  She rather hopes Lanie won’t be there.  Lanie’s sure not to pull her punches and Kate is very sure she’s not up for a boxing match.  Especially as she’s not allowed to spar yet.

The pie is cooling nicely, flavouring the entire apartment with the smell of cinnamon and cloves, and the casserole just in the oven, when the door sounds.  Even after three months, that’s an instantly familiar pattern of knock.  She hadn’t expected that.  Nor is she particularly sure she wants it, though the immediate flare of happiness should belie that.  Another round of not being able to look at him for more than an instant, another confined space in which emotion – hers, at any rate – can and likely will run high, another chapter of realising that whatever she feels she’s not ready to deal with it.  And, extremely trivially, she was looking forward to casserole and pie in the not too distant future, and now she’ll probably have to delay it or share it.  She wasn’t planning on a cosy dinner for two, either.  That’s a long way beyond the limits of her bullet-shattered tolerances.

Still, it’s only polite to open the door, especially if it’s obvious that you’re in.  She even manages to flick a very swift glance up at Castle’s face, although she drops her eyes almost immediately, before there can be any ...unfortunate... consequences.

“Come in,” she says resignedly.  No point in saying _go away_ , especially as she doesn’t want him to.  No point in getting too pleased that he’s come by, when there’s certainly a time limit on this friendship.

It’s not precisely the enthusiastic welcome he’d hoped for, though not expected.  Kate still can’t, or won’t – he thinks it’s can’t, from the twist of her mouth – look at him, and he’s rapidly acquiring the sinking feeling that tells him that this was probably a mistake.  The pie looks really good, though.

“I didn’t know you could cook,” he says, assuming rather more surprise in his tone than he actually feels.  No point in explaining about the other evening.  Kate might wonder how he knew about the stroganoff, or what else he might have noticed.  “I thought you lived on takeout and coffee.”

“Nothing else to do.”  Her back’s to him and she’s fiddling unnecessarily with some papers, pretending to tidy up.  He thinks it’s so she has an excuse not to be looking at him.  Interestingly, at least one of the papers looks as if it’s full of neat black handwriting.  He’s consumed by curiosity, and can’t let a single ounce of it show.

“Why are you here, Castle?  I said I’d let you know about a walk tomorrow.”  It’s not quite as snippy as the words alone imply, but it’s certainly not open armed welcome.                                            

“I had to come past here to get home.  Just thought I’d stop off for a few minutes, like friends do.”  He sees her relax slightly, as if she’d been worried that he was intending to stay for a while.  It’s not exactly flattering, but then again, she still can’t look at him, so he supposes that it’s fairly stressful to have him there: his locked down feelings, so he doesn’t pressure her, notwithstanding.

“Oh.  Do you want some coffee?  Or dishwater herbal tea?”  Mmm.  That’s marginally more hopeful, though he’s not at all convinced by the description of the tea.

“If I ask for coffee will you be annoyed with me because you can’t have one?  If so, seeing as I like my unmaimed life, I’ll try the tea, though you’re not exactly selling it well.”

“No, I won’t be.  I can always enjoy the smell.”

Kate turns away to the kitchen and the kettle, and Castle takes the opportunity to sit rather nearer the bundle of papers than is necessary.  Unfortunately he’s not near enough to read the words, though he’s absolutely sure it’s another letter from the format of the first couple of lines.  He reluctantly recognises that he shouldn’t be doing this (at least where he might get caught) and avoids further temptation by following Kate to the kitchen.

“Can I help?”

“No thanks.”  She pauses.  She doesn’t like what she’s about to say.  Not because Castle will be hurt, though that’s possible, but because it involves admitting more problems.  Still, he can’t have failed to notice this one.  “Would you mind going and sitting down?  It’s rather...difficult...to have you this near.  I” – she stops again – “don’t know how long I can deal with looking at you when you’re in the way before things start to go wrong.”  She ends with a rush.  She hasn’t looked at him once in that time.

“Sure.  Sitting down right now.”  Well, that’s unusual.  Direct truth and explanations, for a second time in two days.  A lot has changed.  It’s just a shame it was changed by a bullet.  However, if he has to sit down, he can select where to sit.  Temptation leaps up again.  He’s a speed reader, and he really, _really_ wants to know what that letter says.  He sits down at a point where he might be able to look but can claim, and appear, not to be reading, and tries very hard to mind his manners.  He’s helped when he remembers how bad he felt about reading the first one, but not by much. 

It takes approximately half a second for temptation to win.  He’s read down the page before he hears the sound of the kettle boiling and then water being poured.  Annoyingly, the balance of the letter is on the other side of the paper.  He’ll consider the contents later, though he’s not flattered by her (utterly wrong) assessment of his motivations nor that she’s so sure he’ll decide there’s no more story and leave.  Even if she says she’ll miss him.  He’d very much like to see the rest, both of this letter and the ones she wrote over the summer, but it isn’t going to happen.  Well, unless she goes to the bathroom, and since this visit is time-limited, he doubts that will happen.  He’s sitting back in his chair, seriously considering the best way to achieve a spot of gentle burglary, when a coffee cup arrives in front of him and he murmurs thanks.

Unsurprisingly, Kate takes a seat somewhere she need not look straight at him.  _Friends, Rick. Friends are allowed to ask careful questions._

“Is this an okay place to sit?”

“Yes.”  She breathes it out on a sigh of weariness.  “I told you I couldn’t look at you before I left because of the flashbacks.  That’s still pretty much true.”  He’d rather guessed that, even before he’d read the first page of the letter.  It had been a little difficult to miss that she didn’t look at him unless she absolutely had to.  He even misses being glared at.  And since she isn’t looking at him, he’s got a better chance of getting away with being – what was that politician’s phrase, ah yes – economical with the truth.

“I’d guessed.  You aren’t glaring at me.”  He grins.  _Just be normal_.  “I’m sure you would have, otherwise.  I must have done something to induce a glare.  Breathe, for example.”  He’s unreasonably delighted to hear a Beckett-flavoured snigger. 

“Maybe not breathe, Castle.  You can’t help that.  Talk, now…”  She sniggers again.  It’s the nearest he’s heard to normality since before Montgomery was shot.


	22. The man hears what he wants to hear

From the faces Kate is making at her tea, which even from a slightly side view indicate displeasure, she’s not impressed by it.  It’s a place to start.

“When do you get back to unlimited coffee?  It’s a public health hazard, not letting you have coffee.”

“Not soon enough,” Kate growls.  It’s not a sexy growl.  It’s thoroughly irritated.  “Just like everything else.  Not enough coffee, no sparring.  Gentle to brisk walking, though I should be able to start running again soon.  At least I’m allowed my own body wash and a bath now.”

Castle has an extremely unhelpful vision of Kate in a bath, squeaks, chokes, and covers it all up with a noise of disbelief.  “No baths?”

“Don’t get the wounds wet.  Don’t use anything other than plain unscented soap.  Don’t be in a shower for more than ten minutes.  Don’t do this.  Don’t do that.  Don’t do anything that might actually be enjoyable.”  It’s tending very rapidly towards the same bitter resentment he’d heard yesterday.

“Sounds extremely boring.  How did you stand being out in the boondocks on your own with nothing to do?”  It’s just a casual, friendly question.  Honestly.  But the answer might tell him when Josh exited the picture.  He doesn’t think that Jim would necessarily have known whether Josh went up or not.  After all, he’d completely missed his own daughter’s PTSD, so he could have missed pretty much anything else.

“Some of us are quite happy with our own company.  I needed space.”  That’s still acid-bitter, too.  “I told you I didn’t want to see anyone, and I didn’t think there was anyone who wanted to see me.”  Actually, she hadn’t, quite, said that till now.  “By the time I’d got through the physiotherapy exercises and” – there’s a very small stutter in the flow – “done anything else I was allowed to there wasn’t much day left.”

“Still sounds boring, all on your own.”

“Nope.”  Hmm.  So she had been alone, all the time.  Sounds like Josh had been ditched before she’d left the hospital.  He can’t imagine that, if Josh had still been Kate’s boyfriend, he wouldn’t have wanted to see her.  If Josh’d been dumped, though… Hmm, again.

Castle’s coffee’s finished, all too soon for his liking, and he ought to go home.  He’s still hoping that he might get a little more truth, or explanation, out of Kate, but he’s been here for half an hour and he thinks that’s likely about the limit of her ability to bear his company, for now.  And anyway, he’s got the next letter to think over, and the pause in her commentary.

“Time I went,” he says cheerfully.  There’s a noticeable lack of pleas for him to stay.  But Kate does manage to stand up and, if not look at him for long, at least meet his eyes for a moment when she escorts him out the door.  It’s a start.  Which pulling her into an embrace will not improve, he tells himself firmly.

“Night, Castle.”

“Till tomorrow,” he replies automatically, and is almost out the building before he realises both what he’s said and, considerably more hopefully, what she didn’t.  Being _no, you won’t_.  That’s the most encouraging thing that’s happened in the last three months.

* * *

 

Kate shuts the door behind Castle and goes back to her neglected cooking.  It’s not until she’s halfway through her dinner that she works out that she hadn’t objected to the automatic, familiar, form of farewell, and that by failing to object she’s committed herself to seeing him tomorrow.  Well, she hasn’t, but she doesn’t want to renege.  If it’s time limited, she’ll enjoy his friendship while it lasts, and maybe manage, by the time it’s all over, to have looked at him properly. She doesn’t like the thought of _all over_.  It depresses her.  She returns to her dinner.  Her apple pie is delicious.  And all hers.

When she’s tidying up, before sitting down with the remains of her single glass of wine to think about what she ought (not _wants_ ) to discuss with Dr Burke tomorrow morning, she realises that the most recent of her never-sent, stream-of-consciousness letters is on the top of the pile of papers she’d left on the table.  Momentary horror washes over her as she hopes desperately that Castle hadn’t seen it.  Relief follows: she’s sure that if he had he couldn’t have kept it a secret, and it’s in exactly the same alignment she left it.  Even if he’d seen it, his insatiable inquisitiveness would have led him to turn it over, and he couldn’t possibly have put it back precisely.  Still, she had better be a bit more careful.  She’s no desire to peel her skin back and show off the inner scars.

So.  What does she need to deal with tomorrow?  Her emotional outburst.  Castle’s reaction.  How she feels about being friends.  Seeing the boys.  Not seeing Lanie.  How the walks have gone. Ugh.  Far too many things to talk about.  But she has to, if she’s ever going to be an NYPD cop again.  She still wants to be a cop, that’s the one thing she is sure of, in all this mess.  Oh yes, and she needs to make the follow-up appointment with her doctor so that she can be declared fit to run, and if she’s really lucky, spar.  She really misses running, and sparring.  One or other used to calm her down, clear her head.  Maybe they will again.  She could stand a lot of head-clearing, especially if it meant she didn’t have to _talk_ so much.

* * *

Castle has successfully avoided any questions by getting home slightly before dinner and blaming the rush hour and the mobs of book-buying fans for the delay.  His little family are sufficiently pleased that he seems to have lost the surrounding cloak of misery that’s dogged his life for three months that they don’t even ask questions.  Anyway, Alexis has homework and his mother is going out.  He doesn’t ask where, or with whom, not that either answer is likely to mean much to him.  He really doesn’t want to know.  All he hopes is that she’ll come in quietly and preferably without company, and leave his better wine alone.

He makes himself some coffee, thinking that he’d be pretty irritable too if coffee was withdrawn from his life, and settles down, ostensibly playing games on his laptop, in fact considering various things.  Firstly, though possibly not most importantly, what on earth was Lanie talking about when she told him he should have got mad with Kate?  He can’t think of a single time when that might have improved matters.  Lanie will just have to explain that, sometime, because now it will nibble at his mind and distract him at odd moments.

Secondly, also not most importantly, should he find some neutral party he can talk to?  He’s finding that he can’t quite get over the remnants of his anger, the desire to shout that he knows she nearly died (and did) but he’s hurting too; and he’s not-so-gradually realising that when he thought he wasn’t still angry, he was wrong.  He is.  It might have been buried, for a day or two, by relief that she hadn’t run off with Josh, or disappeared because she didn’t want him, but instead because she was trying to cope; but the more he sees of her (and he can’t not see her, every chance he has) the more all his smothered emotions are bubbling, a witches’ brew of trouble.

It’s not just anger.  It’s all getting mixed up with an equally strong need to shield Kate, all the guilt from not saving her from being shot, all the guilt from leaving her alone all summer adding up to the desperate desire never to leave her by herself and unprotected again; and an ever-increasing temptation to try to short-circuit the whole batch of issues simply by grabbing her the next time he sees her and kissing hell out her until she can’t mistake or forget or deny how he feels any more.  Or ever again.  Common sense says that passionate kisses, spawned from anger, hurt, guilt and frustration, won’t improve matters.  Past history and general disposition says that kissing her is a damn good idea.

Yelling at Kate isn’t a good plan.  One-upping her pain is both impossible and crass.  Kate’s too fragile to cope with his emotions – he remembers what she said: _I couldn’t cope with all your anxieties_ – on top of her own.  So he can’t get mad at her, can’t lose his temper in the equivalent outburst to hers, can’t solve this by kissing her.  Some time he’ll have to tell her, but she’s not strong enough now.  So maybe he does need a shrink. He’s got no-one else he can talk to about this.  He certainly doesn’t want to discuss it with anyone who knows him, or who knows Kate.

And then there’s the most important thing, that he’s been distracting himself from.  That letter, and not incidentally whether he can get his hands on the previous ones.  The more Kate reveals about the summer, the more he wants to know about what she was thinking, and doing.  He doesn’t think that proposing _I’ll show you mine if you show me yours_ will get him anything other than slapped down.  And if he doesn’t phrase it right, possibly just slapped.   And the thought of her reading what he wrote makes him quail.  His letters are pretty naked, themselves.

Ah.  That’s why he’s angry now.   Because her latest unsent letter makes it clear that she still thinks he’s only been around for shallow, built-on-sand reasons.  Just like she said when she lost her temper and actually told some truth for a change, rather than her usual tactic of avoiding all the issues.  She thinks he’s fixated on his characters, and that his words in the cemetery won’t survive the new reality.  She remembers what he said precisely, but she doesn’t think that he’ll stick by it.  Question is, is he angry because she doesn’t believe him, believe in him; or is he angry because deep down he’s not sure himself? 

That’s a very unpleasant thought.  He’s certain it’s the first reason.  But he wouldn’t mind validating that.  Back to finding a shrink.  Hell, this is complicated.  Then again, when has it not been?  And just as he wrote, he doesn’t want to fail her again.  Won’t fail again.  He doesn’t need to validate his feelings.  There is no possible way that he could ever _not_ be in love with her.  But he needs to get through the other issues.  Hmm.  Maybe he’ll try Dr Burke, in the morning.  He hadn’t been comfortable, but he’d certainly made Castle think.

There is a more hopeful part to the letter.  She’d miss him, if he weren’t there.  That’s a place to stand, a place to start.  She wouldn’t miss someone she didn’t care for.  So he has a plan.  See Kate, as often as possible, let her talk or not, as she needs; be both literally and metaphorically an arm around her shoulders.  Lay out his own feelings with a therapist, someone neutral, and in that way keep enough control that he can be _just friends_ – he grimaces: that’s not what he wants – until Kate is more herself.  He’s got nearly four weeks, till she goes back for evaluation again.  Time enough to make a start.

* * *

 

The next day is grey, but not raining, when Kate makes her way to Dr Burke’s office for her session.  She asks for early appointments, to get them over with and give her the rest of the day to recover.  It’s very hard to expose her true thoughts and feelings, and harder still to have any evasions picked up and turned over.  She supposes that it must be doing her some good, on the principle of _if it isn’t hurting it isn’t working_.  If you can have anaesthetics for physical injury, she thinks frustratedly, why can’t you just have anaesthetic for your mind?  You don’t set broken bones without pain relief, so why hasn’t someone invented it for broken hearts and minds? 

The other good thing about early appointments is that they tend to start on time, and there is no-one else there.  She doesn’t want to stumble over anyone she might know.  Dr Burke is, after all, one of the NYPD’s suggested psychiatrists, so there’s always that chance.  It may be a recommended part of eval, but she isn’t comfortable with the necessity,  facing up to her own weaknesses.  Ugh.  Oh well, time to start.

Dr Burke is his usual smoothly comforting self, asking what she wants to start with, letting her set the topic and the pace.  He never pushes, never forces her to talk: though his questions are penetrating, if she doesn’t want to answer he just lets the silence stretch out and eventually turns to another subject.  Where to start today, from the herd of elephants occupying the rooms in her mind?

“I met up with Castle a couple of days ago.”  Start with the biggest elephant.  “In a coffee bar.”  Dr Burke produces his patented interested, _tell-me-more_ look.  She supposes she’d better explain: after all, the last Dr Burke had heard was about the total disaster that going to his book signing had been.  Context is everything.

“After the signing, after I saw you the next day, I got a letter from him, apologising for not listening and asking me to tell him what I had intended to.”  Dr Burke raises his eyebrows slightly.  “So I agreed to meet him.”

“Why did you do that, Kate?”

“I…He deserved an explanation.  Closure.”  Dr Burke waits through an extended silence, but Kate doesn’t say anything more on that subject.  “So I told him that he’d triggered the flashbacks in the hospital and that I’d been benched and that there wouldn’t be any Nikki Heat any more.”

“Nikki Heat?” 

She doesn’t believe that Dr Burke hasn’t heard of Nikki Heat.  “The main character of Castle’s latest series.  Based on me.  He followed me around at the precinct for inspiration.”  She bites off the final word.  Dr Burke just waits, some more.

“And then he only asked why I was drinking tea not coffee.  After that I’d had enough of being out.  I needed to go home and then he just - came with me.”

“You allowed him to come with you?”  The tone is very neutral.  She ignores the question.

“He came in and I tried to explain why I went up to the cabin a bit better, so he would go away.  Then I lost my temper.  I was so angry that he thought he had a right to be angry with me because he watched.  He only had to watch.  I had to do it.”

“Do it?”

“Die.”  That slices into the room like a scalpel.

“Was that why he said he was angry?  Because he watched?”

Kate doesn’t answer that immediately, replaying what had been said in those moments outside the bookstore.  “Yes.  No.  I don’t know.”

“What happened after you lost your temper?”

Kate pauses.  She still doesn’t understand what happened.  “He said he didn’t want Nikki and then he offered to be a friend.”

“Mmm.”

“He showed up yesterday.  It was raining, so I hadn’t gone for a walk – he said he’d walk with me, if he had time – and he came by on his way home.”

“Mmm.  You said Mr Castle used to follow you around at work for inspiration. You are not at work now, but he still seems to be following you.  Why do you think he would do that?”

“He thought he was in love with me.  He just hasn’t realised that I’ve changed.  I’m not that woman any more.  When he works it out, he’ll stop following me.”  Another long pause.

“Whenever you have mentioned Mr Castle, you have implied or said that your previous relationship will not continue.  Why do you think that?”

“He’s about the story.  And the story is Nikki Heat.  That’s what he was in love with.  Not me.”

“Mmm.  So you think he is going to leave.”

“Yeah.”

“Kate, we are all a product of our experiences.  I would like you to think about your past experiences with people you care about, and how that might be influencing your current thinking.  You should also think about why you are so unwilling to let others help or comfort you, as we discussed in our previous session. It might help if, before our next session, you give that, and your own feelings for Mr Castle, some serious consideration.” 

More homework.  Ugh.  But she’ll do it.  Anything, to fix herself.  Time’s up.  A full hour, and they haven’t tamed even the first elephant of her herd.  She thanks Dr Burke, and leaves.


	23. Everybody's looking for something

Dr Burke is somewhat surprised when his receptionist tells him that Mr Castle has called again, to make an appointment, if possible.  He had not felt that Mr Castle had been particularly satisfied with his counsel the other day.  Although it had provided… interesting… background for today’s session with Detective Beckett.  Now that is a peculiar case.  She has told him how she feels about Mr Castle (it is odd that she never uses his first name), but she cannot seem to give the man himself the slightest indication.  And she is remarkably firmly convinced that there is no future for that relationship, with, as far as Dr Burke can see, no obvious evidence at all: in fact rather the reverse.  He cannot understand her failure to appreciate the significance of Mr Castle coming to see her despite her behaviour over the summer.  Ah well.  Trauma manifests in many and varied ways, and Detective Beckett has had considerably more than her fair share of trauma.  She needs to understand and resolve not only the immediately precipitating events of this summer but also those of much earlier date. He’s set her the correct exercise to try to let her consider the roots of her perceptions.  A classic case of her past interfering with her potential outcome.  There’s an academic paper in that which he will enjoy writing, suitably anonymised, in due course: the effect of past experiences in setting expectations for the future. 

Mr Castle is a different matter.  The telephone consultation which had previously been requested had also been most peculiar.  Mr Castle obviously has very strong feelings about, not to say for, Detective Beckett, but he had described them in an oddly circuitous way, until challenged.   Then he had revealed them with unusual honesty.  However, there are significant gaps in his account.  Dr Burke does not believe that Mr Castle simply wanted to know what to do.  It is far more likely, and in fact close to certain, that Mr Castle wanted permission to see Detective Beckett, and permission still to have feelings for her.  Of course, that is not something that Dr Burke could give.

If he were, separately, treating both sides of this exceedingly dysfunctional relationship, it might be a very interesting exercise.  He would have to make sure that he never revealed anything to either of them: though he would naturally suggest to both, if either mentions the other, that they advised the other that they were undergoing therapy.  That is standard, and maintains confidentiality.  He does not have an issue with that.  They would also individually need substantially less help if they were to talk honestly to each other.

He does wonder how Mr Castle, who seems to be the type of wealthy, celebrity figure who would want to see one of the more publicly renowned psychiatrists, had selected him, but he expects that Mr Castle does not want his issues revealed by visiting a well-known practitioner.  He tells his receptionist that he will accept Mr Castle as a patient, and instructs her to ensure that Mr Castle never has an appointment on the same day as Detective Beckett, explaining only that they are acquaintances and he does not wish them to be embarrassed by meeting each other.

He looks forward to the next few weeks and, possibly, months.  As a psychiatrist, his professional interest has been roused.  This interaction will be fascinating.  As a human being, he would like to see a happy ending.  He has enjoyed the Nikki Heat books immensely, and he is not blind to the similarities between the characters and his patients.  He concludes, with only a small amount of mental gymnastics, that a little assistance, professionally provided, would not be misplaced.

* * *

 

Castle is considerably relieved that Dr Burke will take him on.  He makes an appointment for the next day, there being a convenient space which won’t interfere with his Gina-enforced schedule, and puts it out his mind for now.  It’s only an initial appointment.  If he finds it isn’t helping, he doesn’t have to continue.  Anyway, everyone who’s anyone has been in therapy at some stage, so he ought to keep up with the in-crowd.  Or something.

Meantime, it’s not raining today.  That means that there might be a walk.  He’s not undertaking any PR events today, a rare blessing given the crowded timetable for the next month or so, thus he can be entirely at Kate’s disposal.  Assuming, of course, that she contacts him.  He hopes she will.  Knowing she wants his company would help dissipate some of his less attractive emotions.  Being able to put a … _friendly_ … arm around her would help more.  If she could actually manage to look at him for more than a fraction of a minute, that would be pretty good too.  At that point, he might be able to contemplate something more than _friendly_ arms.  _Getting ahead of yourself there, Rick.  Calm down._   But he still loses himself in a happy daydream of hugging Kate, kissing Kate, touching Kate…  It’s not doing much for his self-control, and it’s still quite early in the day.  He’d better try to do some work.  God knows, he’s written nothing useful for months.  No – inspiration.

Maybe if he can write Nikki without needing to follow Kate around, then she’ll believe he can separate them, rather than thinking that he regards Nikki as some alter ego of hers.  He’s got enough precinct and case material for another three or four books, anyway.  Even if that new Captain won’t let him in.  He’s still annoyed by that.  He’d been useful.  Well.  Maybe when Kate gets back to work she’ll be able to do something about that.  Or at least involve him off the record, so to speak.  That would be a good way to ensure she sees him, often.  Daily.  Mmm.  His normal sunny optimism is beginning to reassert itself, as he takes steps within his control to resolve the situation, rather than dancing to someone else’s tune.  He pulls his laptop into an ergonomically comfortable alignment and begins to write, tapping faster and faster as words and ideas, dammed up all summer, suddenly begin to flow.

He’s so absorbed in his new story, darker than he’s previously written, more emotionally fraught, that he only just notices that his phone has chimed, feels almost annoyed that someone’s interrupting the flow.  Still, he looks briefly to see who it is.  It’s Kate. Annoyance vacates the building at some speed, replaced by hope.

_I’m going to Central Park.  If you have time, meet me at Columbus Circle entrance at 2._

How could he not have time?

_Sure.  See you there._

It’s already one.  He rapidly consumes some lunch (a grumbling stomach is not the effect he wishes to produce) and whisks himself out the door.  He doesn’t want to be late.  He’s seen the strain of being out and about on Kate’s face, and if he’s late he’ll inflict that on her.  Not a good plan.  Friends don’t inconvenience other friends.

He’s slightly early.  No sign of Kate yet.  He spends some time people-watching, picking up titbits of dress, or expression, or demeanour; filing them away to use for minor characters or background scenes in some future book.  The elderly man in old-fashioned clothes and a fedora looks particularly promising, and he’s deep in consideration of a completely unrealistic, but fun, history involving the Cuban missile crisis, Ellis Island, the CIA and a failed romance when someone says _Hey_ uncertainly and he realises with a start that Kate’s arrived.

He has to look downwards to see her face.  _She’s shrunk_ , he thinks ridiculously, taking a moment to understand that she’s wearing flats suitable for walking on grass, not the heels he’s used to.  She’s at the wrong angle.  Or maybe…at precisely the right angle.  At this height, she’ll fit extremely neatly into his arm.  If he gets the chance.  If she lets him.  He smiles down at her, works out that yet again she isn’t looking at him, and says _hey_ in return.

“So what do we do?” Castle asks, perfectly certain that there’s more to this than a simple walk in Central Park to take the air, enjoy Nature, and stretch one’s legs.

“We walk.”  She grimaces with the effort of unpleasant honesty.  “Until I can’t cope any more.”

“How long is that?”

“Why, Castle, do your legs stop working after a certain time?”  She might not look at him, but she can still snark with the best.

“No,” he pouts, just like he would have done before the summer.  “I can walk.  I like walking.”  _Especially, I like walking with you._   “I just want to know.”

“Might be half an hour, might be an hour.  I don’t know.  Depends what happens.”  She starts to move off, into the park, without explaining the final comment.  He scuttles to catch up.  It’s just like it used to be.

At least, it’s just like it used to be until something spooks her and she freezes in place for a few seconds, as he stands uselessly beside her, unsure what to do.  When she recovers herself she aims for the nearest bench and slumps down, trembling, eyes looking inward, like she used to when she was replaying evidence and theories.  He’s no idea what she’s reviewing now but it doesn’t seem pleasant.  He sits down next to her and waits, arm along the back of the bench, gently touching her, there if she needs him.  _Friends._   Even if he wants to pull her in and hug the pain away.  He squashes down emotion.

Some moments later she shakes her head in a way that looks like she’s clearing her thoughts, and starts to stand up.

“What was that all about?”  She sits down again, abruptly.  He thinks she might have forgotten he was there, lost in whatever she’d been seeing.

“Flashback.  Review,” she says shortly, clamps her mouth shut as if to stop anything more escaping.  She’s curled back into herself, still shaking.  He doesn’t even try not to bring his arm closer round her this time, anything to comfort her.  (Or something.  Comfort isn’t exactly the only thing on his mind right now)  It would be fair to say he’s absolutely astonished when she not only doesn’t object, but moves in a way that nearly feels like she’s about to tuck in.  Except, seems like she’s suddenly realised what she’s doing and stops.  That’s a shame.  He’d been enjoying that.  He rapidly straightens his elbow and pretends that closing his arm around her had been wholly accidental.  He’ll plead cramp, if she calls him on it.

This time when she stands he rises with her, pads along at her shoulder, never in front of her.  It’s a very quiet walk, now.  Kate’s shutting down, further and further into close-fitted reserve, and although there hasn’t been another flashback episode, her growing tension feeds his.  He’s immeasurably relieved when she tells him it’s time she went home.  He can feel her holding something back and he’s really very tired of her not talking.  This whole summer has been a disaster because of her not talking, and if the tension rises much further he might start telling her so.  Clearly arms round shoulders and spending time together don’t dissipate unhelpful emotions, they just add more primitive ones to an already dangerously volatile mix.

Kate’s tension has at least as much to do with her berating herself for stupidity in practically cuddling into Castle, looking for protection and comfort, as with the flashback.  Luckily she’d stopped herself.  _Friend, remember?  That’s what’s on offer. Time limited._   She thinks about other things.  Only one flashback, this walk.  That’s an improvement.  Managing to cope with Castle’s company without losing her cool, also an improvement.  Let’s not push the limits of her luck.  Time to go home.  She needs to do her homework.  She needs to make her doctor’s appointment.  She doesn’t need company for either of those things.  She doesn’t need to make the inevitable parting harder than it needs to be.  What she _does_ need to do, however, is start trying to look at Castle for more than microsecond flicked glances.  She girds up her courage as they exit Central Park, back at Columbus Circle.

“Thanks for coming out, Castle.”  She looks up, forcing herself not to turn her gaze away immediately.

“Any time, Kate.”  She’s looking at him.  Actually looking at him, for more than an instant.  So he looks back at her, gauges the effort on her face to do this, and decides not to push.  He wants to accompany her home, ensure that nothing upsets her on the way, but he’s also still struggling with the mix of _why-don’t-you-just-tell-me-what’s-up_ annoyance and a strong desire to kiss her.  Possibly being anywhere near the private space of her apartment is a bad move.  He clings to the thought that he can spill out his feelings tomorrow.  It’s becoming more and more apparent that seeing a therapist is not a luxury.

“If…Tomorrow…”  She shakes her head, drops her eyes.  Whatever she was going to say, it’s slipping away.  He’s not having that.  She has to understand that she can ask for help.

“Kate, friends, remember?  What is it?  D’you want an ice-cream?”  He grins.  “A puppy?  A pony?  I’m not lending you my Ferrari, though.”  There’s a disappointed noise.

“You won’t lend your Ferrari?  What are friends for, then, if not lending muscle cars?”

“See, that’s why I won’t lend you it.  You won’t treat it right.  It’s not just a muscle car, it’s gorgeous.  You’ll bully it.  You won’t appreciate its inner beauty.” 

“Oh, I’d appreciate it plenty.  All the way up and down the turnpike with no traffic cops.  Cars like that should be driven” – there’s an interesting emphasis on the word – “not stuck in garages.  They need handling.”  He can think of other things that would like handling.  That he’d like to handle.  Especially when Kate is using that tone.

“I drive it, lots.  And I’m not lending it to you because you wouldn’t give it back.”  Kate pouts.  It’s adorable, and almost normal.  He’s just about to suggest that she can borrow it if he’s there too when he remembers that he’s being friends.  Not, emphatically not, seducing her with fast cars.

“If I won’t lend you the Ferrari, what do you want?”  Back to the original issue.  She’s chewing at her lip, nervously.

“I said I’d meet Ryan and Esposito tomorrow evening.  Would you…” 

He waits.  He knows what she wants, but he’s not inclined to pre-empt her.  He’s beginning to think that she won’t ask, that she’s backing off again, when she speaks, a fast rush of words as if, should she stop partway, she’ll lose her nerve. 

“Would you come too?”

“Okay.”

“It’s fine if you can’t…what?”  Insecure Kate is not something he’s used to.  He’s not sure he likes it.  It doesn’t suit her.  Then again, if it means he gets to spend time with her tomorrow, he’ll certainly cope.

“Okay.  Let me know when and where.”  He thinks he’d better go before she has second thoughts.  “Till tomorrow.” 

* * *

 

Kate makes her way home, not entirely sure whether today has ended up successful or not.  Well, at least she’ll have someone to have her back tomorrow evening.  She sends the details before she can think too much about what she’s doing.

She makes an appointment with her doctor for the next day and settles to the exercise Dr Burke has set her.  What does he mean, consider her past experiences with people she cares about?  Who’s she cared about, in the past?  She thinks for a while, starts to write.

_Mom_

_Dad_

_Will_

_Tom?_

_Josh?_

She’s not sure about the last two.  Did she care about them?  Sort of, in, she admits, much the same way as she might have been fond of a pet hamster, as a child.  Strike them out.  Who does that leave?  Just her parents, and Will Sorenson.

Her mom was murdered.  Her dad disappeared into Jim Beam, and anything else that would give him oblivion, for years.  Will went to Boston, ignoring her fast-improving career in favour of his own.

Oh. _Now_ she sees what Dr Burke wanted her to see.  _Spell it out, Kate.  It’s not real till you write it down._   Each of them had left her, voluntarily or not, deserted her.  Past history, a guide to present performance.  She’s programmed to expect abandonment.  So she’s taken to doing it first.  Tom.  Josh.  Even running away to the cabin this summer.  Leaving others before they can leave her.  And when they don’t, she still expects them to, keeps one foot out the door, doesn’t dare dive in.  And she doesn’t expect help because of all of that.

Oh.  Just like she’s expecting Castle to leave.  Oh.  Now what?  She’s been systematically walling off what she feels, because she expects him to leave.  Because everyone else always has.  Even though every time she thinks he’s gone, or thinks she’s driven him away, eventually he’s come back.  Even this time.  Even though he’ll help, without limit, whenever she needs it.  Maybe she should let him?  Starting with letting him be friends.

She really, really needs to think about all of this.  If it’s correct, then she needs to reassess pretty much everything she thought she knew.  She’s too tired now: too much thinking already tonight.  Dinner, and a very large glass of wine.  And then coffee.  A realisation like this deserves coffee.  And a lot of wine.  Oh _hell_ yes.


	24. I get knocked down, but I get up again

Castle finds himself nervously sitting in Dr Burke’s office the next morning, wondering what brainstorm had possessed him to think that this could ever have been a good idea.  Dr Burke is regarding him with expectant intelligence, and for all his wordcraft, he can’t think of a single syllable to say, except possibly _eek_ , which doesn’t seem helpful.

“Mr Castle” –

“Please, call me Rick.  Everyone calls me Rick.  Well, except Kate.  She always calls me Castle.  When she’s around and talking to me. Oh, and the detectives at the precinct do too.”  He’s burbling brainlessly, from nervousness.

“Rick, then.  What do you want to gain from this session?”

That makes him stop his verbal outpouring and think.  Why did he want this?  Ah yes.

“I want…not to be so angry about everything that’s happened.  Not to be hurt by it.  Kate needs me to be her friend and I can’t do that if I can’t control myself.  I don’t want to spook her into running away again.  I want her to come back.”  He forcibly stops the flow of words before he starts sounding as if he’s five and whimpering plaintively for a lost teddy bear.

“Kate?”

“Detective Beckett.  Like I told you about on the phone.”

“I see.”  There’s a thoughtful pause.  “Why do you feel you should not be angry, or hurt?  After all, you told me, on the phone, that she did not contact you for more than two months, but immediately prior to that you had thought that she might finally be able to admit her feelings for you.  It does not seem unreasonable for you to be hurt and angry.”

There’s a considerable silence, while Castle thinks about that.

“Because she had a good reason.  She was shot.  She always goes off alone when she’s hurt.”

“Always?”

“Yeah.  Every single time.”

“Those are her behaviours, at least as you see them.  What are your reasons for not being angry or hurt as a result?”  More space and silence.  Dr Burke says absolutely nothing.  Castle thinks.  Why shouldn’t he be angry with Kate?  Apart from because he never was before.

“Lanie – Dr Parrish, the ME for the precinct – said I never got mad with Kate.  Even when I should have.  I don’t get what she meant.  Getting mad with Kate would be pointless.  She’d just shut down more.”

“And what do you do, when she shuts down, as you put it?”

“Wait.  She comes out it, eventually.”

“Mmm.  What you appear to be describing, Rick, is a repeated pattern where Detective Beckett isolates herself whenever she is hurt, mentally or physically, and you accept it, without taking any action to prevent it or trying to tell her how that makes you feel.”  Dr Burke’s tone is completely dispassionate.  Castle feels rather like a pinned beetle, legs waving frantically in an effort to escape reality.  “Why do you feel you have to accept it, rather than try to change your reaction to it?”

Castle swerves that question and answers a completely different one, that he likes better.  The only answer he can think of for the original question revolves around _because I’m scared she’ll walk away from me for good if I upset her, because she didn’t want me around in the first place, so even if I thought she might do now I’m scared she won’t_ , and he doesn’t want to admit that rather incoherent motivation.

“But I didn’t, this time.  I got mad with her when she tried to explain, and then she just left.  And then she had the flashback and I went after her and then later on I went round and she had another one.”

“Why did you go to her home?”

“I wanted an explanation.  I wanted to say sorry.”

“Sorry for what?  After all, she had isolated herself all summer.  Why do you feel you should apologise?”

Castle thinks about that.  He’s doing far more thinking than he’d anticipated, far deeper than he likes.  He can’t see how anyone would want to do this more than once.

“I didn’t give her a chance to explain, even though it’s the first time she’d ever tried to explain anything.”

“Mmm.  You told me that she had another flashback and so you left.  Was that your final action?”

“No.  I wrote her a letter, and then we met in a coffee bar and then she didn’t really explain so I went home with her when she said she didn’t want to be out any more” – Dr Burke raises interrogative eyebrows – “well, she didn’t stop me coming with her – and then she explained a bit more,” he winces, remembering her pain, “and then I said I thought she needed a friend and there I was for her.”

“So in fact, this time, you have changed your response to her actions.  Instead of letting her leave alone, as you previously have, you left with her.  What has that achieved?”

“She talked to me.  Well, unloaded, really.  And she said I could go with her if she was walking in Central Park, and we did, today.  She invited me.  Though it was raining yesterday so she didn’t then, but I went round anyway.  And she wants me to go with her when she sees her team tonight.”

Dr Burke looks at the clock.  “Rick, time is up for today.  I want you to think about Detective Beckett’s reactions to your current actions.  I also want you to think very carefully as to why you have previously felt that you cannot display your perfectly understandable and normal feelings to her.  When you have considered those points, a further appointment may well be helpful.  In the interim, you may continue with your current strategy, which is unlikely to have any unfortunate consequences, also trying to be honest with both yourself and Detective Beckett about your feelings.  You may find it helpful to advise her that you are seeing a therapist, however, it is not compulsory.”

Castle decamps.  He feels that he’s had his brain removed, turned inside-out, washed, brushed, examined and re-inserted.  It’s not comfortable.  It’s especially not comfortable having his cosy assumption, that letting Kate get over things in her own sweet time was best, overturned.  He’s not very keen on confrontations, preferring to avoid, evade or charm his way out of them.  He supposes he’d better do his homework, eventually.

* * *

Kate is sitting with the doctor, patiently bearing all the repetitive questions, minor tests and examination of the healed scars. 

“You’re close to completely healed, Miss Beckett.”  Well, that’s the best news in some time.

“So can I start running and sparring again yet?”

“You can run.  Don’t overdo it, though.  Build up slowly. No sparring for another month.”

Kate looks disappointed.  She’d really rather hoped she’d be able to punch something.  Work off her frustration and anger in a nice, simple, uncomplicated way that doesn’t involve endless talking.  Seems like that won’t be happening soon.  The doctor isn’t finished, though.

“Miss Beckett, there is something else.  You haven’t renewed your contraceptive prescription in some time, due to your injury.  Do you need to now?”

She thinks.  No specific reason to renew, nor likely to be one.  Still, there are other reasons to be on the Pill.  Predictability, for a start, makes life so much easier.

“Yes.”

* * *

After the doctor’s appointment, after lunch, Kate pulls out her running gear and serenely  takes herself out, i-Pod on, to run for the first time in months.  The sheer joy of doing something she loves, something normal, something she used to do, clears her mind just as she’d hoped.  While she’s in the hypnotic bubble caused by the stretch and rhythm of running, she isn’t spooking at any unexpected noise or flash.  Still, she’s careful not to overdo it.  She doesn’t want to overstrain her muscles, wants to be able to run tomorrow, and she also needs to take the slower walks that Dr Burke has suggested will desensitise her reactions and, in time, stop the flashbacks and panic.  Run today, perhaps a walk tomorrow.  Perhaps with company.  She doesn’t run, never runs, with company, running is solely for herself.

When she gets home, she’s more relaxed and clearer-headed than she remembers being since she returned to the city, showers and changes, looks at her watch and realises that she needs to be on her way to Finnerty’s, reluctantly tugs on a coat and leaves.  She’s not really looking forward to seeing the boys.  She doesn’t want to have to explain anything, and she still hopes that Lanie won’t be there.  But she said she’d meet them, and she has to get back to normal.  And besides, she’s asked Castle to meet her there, so she’d have someone to have her back. 

* * *

The boys are already at the bar when Kate arrives, Castle in tow.  Ryan and Espo are a little surprised that Castle’s come in with Beckett.  She hadn’t mentioned he was coming too, though it wouldn’t have been unusual, before the summer.  They’re more surprised to notice that he’s sitting a noticeable fraction closer to Beckett, and subtly exuding a rather more protective aura, than they’re used to seeing.  When he slings his arm along the back of the seating in the booth, even though it’s not – quite – touching Beckett, it’s fairly clear that he’s laying down a marker that all is not perfectly well. And that anyone upsetting her will need to go through him first.  Esposito’s pretty sure he doesn’t even know that’s what he’s done.  But they’re detectives, and they’re used to detecting small signs and subtle undercurrents.  Funny, though: protection’s not something Beckett’s ever needed, let alone allowed, before.  Then again, she doesn’t look entirely happy with the surroundings.  Things are clearly a bit different, this side of a sniper’s bullet.

It’s all mildly uncomfortable, for the first moments, covered only partly by the process of acquiring beers.  Beckett’s looking round nervously, searching for anything that doesn’t look right, or safe.  No-one’s really sure what to say, till Esposito remembers how he did it in the hospital.

“Hey, Beckett, how’s the vacation going?  Don’t see much of a suntan.”  Castle internally winces, but Beckett not only doesn’t flinch, but doesn’t miss a beat.

“Who needs a suntan?  Yours only gave you wrinkles.”  Espo grins.

“Not as many as Ryan’s got.”

“I’ll lend you both my moisturiser.  Pretty you up a bit.”

“I don’t need prettied up, I’m fighting off come-ons every hour.”

“Yeah right, Espo.  I can see them queuing all the way round the block.  Not.  But thinking of come-ons – you promised me gossip.   _Who_ has Karpowski hooked up with?”

Ryan’s eyes are dancing.  “Guess.  You’ll never get it, though.”  Beckett looks at him piercingly.

“That a bet, Ryan?  What’s your stake?”

“Five bucks says you don’t get it.  Three guesses.”

“I got five says she doesn’t get it either,” puts in Esposito.  “Castle, you in?”

“Sure.  Five more.”  He’s no idea who Karpowski’s latest is, so it seems a pretty safe bet.  And besides which, Kate is back to Beckett and anything at all that keeps that on track is worth a lot more than five bucks.

“Goldstein.  He’s Karpowski’s type.  All muscle.”

“Nope.”  Ryan smirks.

“O’Flaherty.  Maybe she’s going for a few more brains than the last one.”

“She is, but not with O’Flaherty.  I can feel those five bucks coming my way, Beckett.  Ready to lose?”

Beckett glares, bites her lip in thought.  “Johnston?” 

“Nah.  Pay up, Beckett.”  She produces three five-dollar bills and distributes them disgustedly. 

“So c’mon then, who is it?  Gotta be someone with some looks.  Karpowski’s about as deep as a puddle when it comes to men.”

Esposito’s barely holding in a laugh.  “You sure you wanna know, Beckett?”

“Yes.  Spit it out already.”

Ryan sniggers.  “You really, really sure?”

“Just spill, dammit.  Stop jerking around.  What’s the big secret?” 

“ ‘S Demming.”  Both men collapse with laughter at Beckett’s expression.  Castle’s barely behind.  She looks absolutely poleaxed.

“Karpowski and _Demming?_ ” she squeaks out.  “You are _kidding_ me.  Karpowski and _Demming_?  Oh boy oh boy.”  She bursts into laughter of her own.  “Oh, I _so_ don’t mind coughing up on a lost bet for that news.  Oh wow.”

“What’s so funny, Beckett?”

“Oh, you have no idea.” She manages to stop laughing for a moment to take a swig of her beer, then snickers evilly.  “Karpowski’ll make mincemeat of him.  Poor Demming.  He’s so screwed.” 

“How’dya mean, Beckett?”

She sniggers dirtily.  “Oh, you don’t want to know.  You _really_ don’t want to know.”

Castle thinks that this is possibly a conversation that he doesn’t want to hear – not least because he really doesn’t want to be reminded of the months he spent in miserable jealousy of Demming – and takes a conveniently timed restroom break.  When he returns Beckett has mostly stopped laughing, though she’s still smirking nastily and occasionally emitting a malicious gurgle.

Ryan starts to tell them all about the latest case: some suit accused of murdering his brother-in-law.  It all seems to have got a bit stuck: nothing’s popping.  Beckett’s wrinkling her nose and biting her lip as if she’s thinking in the precinct – and suddenly she’s off and running: _have you looked at_ and _did you interview_ and _how about_ and the Detective and her team are very firmly back in business: Esposito and Ryan picking up the suggestions, and he, Castle, throwing in far-fetched theories and ideas which get the same reactions they always have: _Don’t be ridiculous, Castle_. 

And then it turns into the give-and-take of theory and story and evidence that they always used to have, finishing each other’s sentences and mentally as close and intense as it’s ever been; the boys flicking back and forth between them like they’re at Flushing Meadow watching the tennis.  It’s perfectly, wonderfully back to normal:  and if Beckett isn’t ready for more he’ll settle for theory sex for now.  He loves her mind: the way she thinks, the way they fill each other’s gaps.   It’s all going just as well as he could hope: relations with the boys re-established, Beckett doing what she’s best at: kick-ass crime solving.

Until some drunken idiot drops a trayful of drinks and Kate loses it, startles and jerks back reflexively, landing against him, panicking and terrified.  He doesn’t even think about what he _should_ do, simply, automatically, reacts: pulls her right in and cradles her tightly and tucks her head against his shoulder, both arms around her, all the protection he didn’t, couldn’t, give her all summer, or in the street, or in the park, coming out here and now.

“Shit,” breathes Esposito, and might be about to say more when Ryan elbows him hard in the ribs to shut him up.

Castle lets go after only a moment, but it’s far too late to hide what he’s just done; too late to pretend it was an accident.  She won’t have intended to jump back into him, but as soon as she did everything else became inevitable.  He glares over Beckett’s head at the boys in a _do-you-wanna-make-something-of-this_ way, but oddly they’re not giving him the usual _upset-her-and-we’ll-hurt-you_ glare in return.  It almost looks like acceptance, if not approval.  And while all of this alpha male non-verbal communication is going on over her head, Kate is sitting absolutely still and very much closer than two minutes ago; back to that inward, reviewing gaze he’d seen in Central Park.

When she re-focuses, there’s a very uncomfortable silence, until Kate picks up her beer, takes a long draught, looks around at all three men and says with bitter black humour, “Not dead, this time.”

“Ya sure?” ripostes Esposito, with the same black humour. “Because I just saw Castle put his arms around ya and ya haven’t killed him for it yet.  Ya gotta be dead if you’re letting that go on.”

“Not allowed to spar yet.  Can’t kill him with my bare hands.  No gun, can’t shoot him.”  Kate’s doing her best to pull it back together, but she’s approximately one short step from running out the door.  Castle can feel the tension thrumming through her body where she still hasn’t moved away from him.  Carefully, he shifts very slightly to press his leg against hers – wholly neutrally: small reassurance from which he hopes she’ll draw comfort. She still doesn’t move.

But the earlier ease and spark is all gone, and in a very short time Kate downs the last dregs of her single beer and understands very clearly that for her, this party’s over.  She excuses herself to the restroom, the boys not inclined to question why she’s taken her purse.  One of those female mysteries they shouldn’t ask about, they feel. 

When she returns she doesn’t sit down again.

“Time for me to go.  Past curfew.  See you.”  And she’s gone, halfway to the exit before anyone has even managed _Bye_.  Castle makes a half-move to follow, swiftly aborted.  He’s betrayed quite enough for one evening, he feels.  Though he may well go home via Kate’s door.

Ryan and Esposito are, well, shocked.  Beckett went from normal through zoned-out to gone in less than ten minutes, and Castle isn’t saying a single word about it.  In fact, he’s remarkably unreadable.  Usually he chatters like a magpie, and makes nearly as much sense, every thought written on his face.  And what is this business of him protecting Beckett?

“What happened there?”  Castle shrugs.  It’s not his story to tell.  “C’mon, Castle.  Since when do you get to be that close to Beckett without getting hurt?”  More shrugs.

“Up to her what she says to you.  Not up to me.”  Otherwise known to Ryan and Esposito as getting chopped off at the knees.  The boys produce twin interrogation stares, which have no effect at all.  To avoid a more intense interrogation, which is clearly heading down the track towards him at bullet-train speed, Castle rapidly finishes his beer, makes his excuses and leaves.


	25. See me, feel me, touch me, heal me

When Kate gets home from the bar, somewhat upset by the flashback and shaken by Castle’s reaction, she goes back to her homework.  Dr Burke has forced her to confront an exceedingly uncomfortable realisation: her own actions aren’t based on current, or indeed any, evidence but on her own past history.  That’s not how a detective should operate.  She should be relying on the evidence she has, not on emotion that she hadn’t even realised she had and supposition that has no known basis in fact.  If she’d done this on a case, she’d have been disgusted with herself. So why’s she doing it with her life?  She sits thinking for a while, considering her history, considering her more recent history. 

Finally she pulls out the envelope of letters that she’d written but never sent, spreads them out on her desk and re-reads them from beginning to end.  It’s excruciating, both for how much pain they reveal and for the mirror it holds up to her flawed reasoning.  She sees how often she’s simply assumed that it’s all going to be over, because _she_ thinks she’s fundamentally changed, yet she’s never actually heard anyone say that, nor has she taken any steps at all to find out if she really has, under the flashbacks.  And _she’s_ the one who’s pushed people away, so afraid that someone else will decide it’s over that she’s forced any relationship to be over before anyone else can.  At least that way _she_ decides when to be abandoned.

Time to start looking at the facts and the evidence, not the lies that emotion, an unreliable witness, tells.  _Build your case, Kate, as a detective should do_.  No law says she has to act on it till she’s sure she’s ready, and she’s very sure that whatever answers come to her she won’t be ready to act on them quickly, but at least then she’d have a place to stand.

Evidence, then.  Facts.  Fact one: Castle has always come back.  He came back after he interfered in her mother’s case and she sent him away.  He came back after Demming and Gina.  He came to the aircraft hangar, again after she’d sent him away.  He was there every day in the hospital, till she told him to go.  She hurt him by leaving without a word. He still came back.  Fact two:  he offered to be her friend, after she’d poured vitriolic resentment all over him and shown him the worst of her – very much not Nikki at all.  And, even so, he came to Central Park and to the bar: in both places having her back.  Fact three: that instinctive reaction in the bar, comfort and protection both.  Though she isn’t sure what it really was, given how long it _didn’t_ last.  Fact four: he announced to half Manhattan that he loved her.  But that’s where she balks, even now.  He announced it when she was dying.  He’s not indicated it, before or since.  She doesn’t have the evidence, either way, whether it was a reaction to the situation, or reality.

So.  Facts established, as far as possible for now, deduce.  Detect, Detective.  He comes back, even after seeing how unlike kick-ass Nikki she currently is.  So maybe it’s not just about Nikki.  He wouldn’t come back now if he didn’t have some feelings.  God knows, there’d have to be some reason beyond her currently not-so-scintillating personality.  Even if it’s friendship, that’s a place to stand.  And he’s prepared to guard her back.  Which is pretty important, right now.

All this thinking and analysing is making her head hurt and shaking her stability, upset and hurt closer to the surface than she’d like.  She gets up to put the kettle on, since wine, however desirable, on top of beer is a bad plan, and that’s when there’s a knock on the door.

* * *

 

Castle wants to go straight from the bar to Kate’s, but a moment’s consideration tells him that’s not such a great plan: firstly because she needs a little space to recover herself, and secondly because he needs a little space to calm down and, not incidentally, think over what’s just happened, in the context of Dr Burke’s words earlier, and what he’s going to do and how.  He wanders randomly till he finds a café to park himself in, and once comfortably settled he contemplates.  The day’s been uncomfortably interesting.  Mostly.  Kate in his arms had been very comfortably interesting, even if it had lasted less than a minute and been entirely instinctive. 

Anyway.  So, his actions at the coffee bar.  For pretty much the first time ever, he didn’t let Kate just walk away, but went with her.  She didn’t object, or tell him to go, or tell him not to annoy her: she let him come too.  She actually talked to him.  Explained, albeit she lost her temper and, he is perfectly certain, admitted far more than she’d ever intended to say.  So maybe he shouldn’t let her walk away and leave her to it.  Maybe…

Ah.  Now he sees something he’s always missed before.  Kate doesn’t ask for help, doesn’t ask for anything.  So if he doesn’t go after her, it doesn’t necessarily mean she doesn’t need, or want, him there, it is equally likely that she’s not asking him to join her because that’s not what she does.  She never asks, unless absolutely forced to it.  He knew that, but he’d never properly understood it.  _I thought you wouldn’t be burdened by me_ , she’d written.   Asking for help is a weakness.  Needing help is a weakness.  Both _burden_ other people.  So she admits to neither, does neither, for fear of _burdening_ others, and every time he didn’t follow her it likely fed her view that it was all about Nikki, who never needs any emotional help.  Even after he went home with her, after the coffee bar, she barely managed to ask him to join her in Central Park, and she’d clearly expected him to decline.  Same with seeing the boys.  That’s still annoying, though.  Surely she should know by now that he wouldn’t be burdened?  He told her so, back in the hospital.  But he knew, even then, how much she hated asking for help.  She told him so, as if he hadn’t known, not a week ago.

Given this new understanding of her thinking, why has he never followed her when she’s run away, never pressed for more?  Because he’s not psychic, he can’t read her mind, he didn’t realise she needed him because she never said so  – but honestly, was that the only reason?  Any reason?  Well, he answered that, at least to himself.  He was scared.  Scared she’d tell him to go for good if he even merely followed, scared that if he revealed his feelings she wouldn’t feel the same, scared that if he got mad she’d tell him it was all over for ever.  In so many ways he’s never told her the truth, except once, when she was in no position to do or say anything about it.  And now he needs to decide: be honest about how he feels and take the chance that it’ll all go wrong, or continue squashing down everything and, no doubt, eventually explode from the pressure.  Does he really want a relationship where he can’t be honest?   It doesn’t sound like a firm foundation for anything.

He finishes his drink, leaves cash on the table and exits, not hurrying.  Kate’s apartment is not far away.  It’s not ten yet, and he’s told his family he’s out with Ryan and Esposito so they won’t be expecting him home till much later.  Maybe walking to Kate’s is best.  Clear his head, decide on his strategy.  _Not truth_ or _dare, Rick, truth_ and _dare._ Or if not truth,  it’ll carry on being True Lies, but he’s no Jaime Lee Curtis and doesn’t want to be.  There’s no real choice, he thinks: they can’t keep playing this same game of hide-and-seek with each other’s feelings.  But deciding on honesty doesn’t mean drowning Kate today in a tsunami of truth that she’s not ready to hear.  It means not hiding, when he has a choice, and taking the consequences.  However painful.

His pondering has led his feet in the right direction.  He’s only a couple of blocks from Kate’s and it’s time to head there.  He’ll check she’s okay, given that she’d left the bar precipitately after her flashback, let her know, undemandingly, that he’s there if she needs him, maybe encourage her to take him with her tomorrow, if she’s out, weather and schedules permitting.  As an aside, he wonders if he should talk to Dr Burke about the letters he wrote through the summer.  Maybe he should re-read them first.  They might expose rather more than he’d like.

He knocks on Kate’s door.

* * *

 

Kate is not wholly surprised that Castle has appeared.  And that he has lends some further weight to her evidence that there is at least friendship there to stand upon.  Still, it may not be very late but she’s trying to get enough sleep while she can – once she gets back to work that’s unlikely to happen – so although she’s pleased to see him (a feeling that she doesn’t examine for fear of spoiling it) she doesn’t want him to stay too long.  But the kettle’s on, and so she invites him in, managing to look him squarely in the eye for a minute.

“Want a coffee, Castle?  Kettle’s on.”

“Please.  Can I help or do you want me to sit down?”

Kate thinks about it for a few seconds.  She’s ready to say _help_ , like she used to, made braver by beer and the joshing of the boys, the to and fro of the case discussion, and the unquestioning, instinctive protection that Castle had given which provided her with security enough to leave the bar on farewells and dignity, not secretive running away without a word.  Except that if he _does_ trigger a flashback (and she’s had one already this evening) it’s likely not sensible to be dealing with boiling water as well.  She’s had enough of hospital for a very, very long time.

So, just as Castle’s beginning to wonder if she heard him, she decides.

“Not yet.”

Castle obediently takes the hint, not missing the implication of _Not yet_ as opposed to, say, _No_ , and wanders idly out of the way.  He can hear the clink of mugs and coffee pot, the foreshadowing hiss and bubble of the kettle.  If Kate had a proper coffee-maker, like his, he thinks, she wouldn’t have to supervise it.  She’d be free to talk already.  He’s sliding his gaze along the bookshelves, ever further from the kitchen, when two things catch his attention simultaneously.  One is the unmistakable and welcome splash of water into coffeepot and associated aroma.  The other is the sheets of paper in Kate’s neat black writing spread across her desk.  He flicks a guilty glance towards the kitchen and catches a hint of movement just in time not to step any closer to the desk.  By the time Kate’s telling him that coffee’s ready he’s some distance from temptation, infinitely curious, infinitely frustrated.  It’s worse than not being able to read the whole letter last time.  Burglary is looking an ever more attractive option.  Certainly the universe does not seem inclined to co-operate, which he feels is very unfair.

He goes to retrieve his coffee and notices with some surprise that Kate has poured herself coffee too.  He looks at her a little more closely, too surprised that she’d looked him in the eye when she’d opened the door really to take in anything else.  But on careful examination, she seems somewhat stressed, somewhat upset.  He politely lets her sit down first, and then comes to take station beside her, neatly gauged to be out of her direct view, as required, laying his arm along the back of the couch where it will be conveniently placed in case of need.

“You okay?  You left a bit suddenly.  The boys are worried you don’t love them any more.”  The last sentence had been very hurriedly recast in the middle.  _Worried about you_ probably won’t help anything.

“Yeah, I guess.  I could live without flashbacks,” she says, bitterly, and takes a long drink of coffee.  Castle leaves that topic severely alone and tries a different tack.

“Coffee?  You’re allowed unrestricted coffee again?”

“Not really, but I wanted one.  The occasional extra one won’t hurt now.”  Hmm.  Try a little directness.  It’ll be so surprising it might even work.

“That because of the flashback?”

“Bit.  And the homework the therapist set.”  She bites that off as if she’s suddenly realised that she didn’t want to say that.

“You get homework?  That’s like being back in high school.  Does it get graded?”  He has a sudden horrible thought that he might be being graded on the quality of his thinking.  He reckons that might, at best, be C.  Ah well, he’s never been an A-grade student.  Though he strongly suspects Kate has always been graded A, for everything.  Perfectionism is one of her qualities.  Endearing or infuriating depending on the situation.  Oh.  And currently she’s not feeling very perfect.  His arm insinuates itself gently round her shoulders.

Kate looks briefly at him, highly suspiciously.

“What’s this, Castle?”

“Comfort.  It’s what friends do, Kate.”  Well, mostly comfort.

Kate hums sceptically, not convinced.  Casual friendly hugs have not formed a major part of her adult life, even with her boyfriends or lovers.  She doesn’t encourage casual touching.  However, Castle looks serious, not mischievous – or anything else - and he’s not emanating anything she can’t deal with.  She takes his comment at face value, for now, and settles back.  Not, she ensures, closer in.  Just back, against his arm.  Friends. And she could use the comfort.

Well now.  Progress.  This is nice.  Very nice.  Don’t spoil it.   _In other words, Rick, do not pull her tight in and kiss her hard.  No matter how much you want to._  “Do you really get set homework?”  That’s highly disingenuous.  He knows she’ll get homework – after all, so does he.  He would love to know what her homework consists of.

“Yeah.  Just like high school.  No grades, though.”  She sounds rather relieved at that.  “I don’t even need to hand it in.”  That sounds even more relieved.  It _also_ sounds as if at least some of the writing on her desk has been prompted by her therapy.  He vaguely remembers the first letter he managed to read referring to that.  And also to the letters over the summer.  His need to know resurges, very nearly overwhelming him.  He grabs for the fast-retreating remnants of self-control, and finds it in this unexpected permission to have Kate within his arm.  She’s fallen quiet, but this time it’s the soft slow silence of sleepiness, rather than the hushed, tense, reserve and strain that’s all he’s seen since she returned, until tonight.  He tightens his arm, just a fraction, to see if it might encourage her to snuggle in,  as if he were a giant teddy bear. 

She yawns and stretches slightly to reach the last drips of her coffee, puts the mug back down and rests back again, unconsciously a little closer.  She’s tired now, the day catching up on her: the doctor, the run, the bar, the flashback, the homework and the realisations it sparked.  She should ask Castle to go, so she can take herself to bed.   Just in a moment.  Being friends is very comforting.  Warm.  She pulls herself together.

“I’m beat, Castle.  ‘S time I was asleep.”

Castle only just doesn’t offer to tuck her into bed, though he thinks she might have heard it anyway, from the sudden glare.  Still, she didn’t tweak his nose or ear, which is an improvement.  He briefly considers asking if he can stay long enough to finish his coffee and take the opportunity to read all those tantalisingly accessible letters, but that’s a long step too far.  He drains his cup and takes it tidily to the kitchen.  When he returns Kate’s by the door, drooping slightly.

“Night, Castle.”  He decides to take a chance, when she’s sleepy and not likely to move too fast, and pulls her into a hug, letting go quickly enough for it to be _friendly_ and absolutely definitely not kissing her, even on the cheek.  He slides out the door before she can object.

“Till tomorrow.  Text me if you’re going for a walk, and if I can I’ll keep you company.”  And he’s gone.


	26. A little less conversation

In the morning, when Kate wakes, it’s another fine September day, bright and clear.  It’s quite early, and she has the sudden urge to have a day as she used to, start with a run and then take the rest of the day as it comes.  There’s nothing on her schedule, just like there won’t be till she’s allowed back to the precinct, which is still three weeks away at best.  She looks at the time stretching out before her and, though she reluctantly recognises that she is not at all ready to go back yet, for the first time she doesn’t have the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that she had in the Adirondacks, has had since she returned.

Maybe in a day or two she’ll be ready to call Lanie.  She feels much stronger, more capable of yelling back, if Lanie tries to yell again.  And even if Lanie does, she’s got someone else who’ll have her back.  Seeing the boys had been a good plan: talking about their case, doing what she’s best at.  She may still need to solve the flashbacks, but she can certainly still detect.  She emits another evil little snigger about Karpowski and Demming.  Karpowski’s tastes are varied, from what she’s picked up in the bullpen.  Demming, she recalls, was pretty plain vanilla.   

She decides that she should see the boys reasonably frequently; keep in touch.  If they didn’t ask difficult questions last night, then they probably won’t, and it had really felt good to be back, however indirectly, in harness.  Her mind skitters sideways.  It had also felt…not bad, precisely… when Castle had wrapped his arms round her: the unusual sensation of someone else taking the brunt of the world, protecting her from her pain.  She files that thought for later, when she’ll go back to her evidence and facts.  Definitely friends.

By the time she’s finished that thought, she’s ready to go for her run, lose herself in the flex of muscle and consequent endorphin high.

* * *

Castle’s phone is beeping when he wakes, rather later, chirping its song of texts.  One is a reminder of where and when he ought to be for today’s PR activities; the others are rather more interesting.  Ryan.  Espo.  (separately? That’s unusual: generally one means the other.)  Lanie.  Wow.  Everyone wants to talk, today.  Cynically, he thinks he knows why.  They’re expecting him to provide the explanations that Kate hasn’t.  That’s a losing game.  He’s not going to explain Kate to anyone.  They’ll have to face up to that one themselves.

When he reads them, though, it’s not quite like that.  Well, except for Lanie.  Lanie, he considers, will just have to do her own fence-mending.  He’s no intention at all of getting between Kate and Lanie.  Observation tells him that if those two have to sort their differences, the right place for him (or Esposito, or Ryan, or indeed anyone) is a very long way away.  Possibly in Pennsylvania.  Or Texas.  He taps out a suitable answer to Lanie.

Ryan, and separately Esposito, appear to be considerably more interested (which he very accurately interprets as concerned and/or protective) in why he’d come to the bar with Kate and what he thinks he’s doing shielding Kate.  There’s a distinct undercurrent of _that’s our job_ running through their messages.  Both of them have suggested another evening out.  He strongly suspects that they’ll put the hard word on him.  That’s fine.  He’ll return the favour, with interest, if he feels it necessary.  He has a look at his PR schedule and finds a suitable evening, devoid of book parties, a handful of nights away.  He looks at his schedule again, and realises with horror that he’s supposed to be at receptions of one sort or another nearly every remaining night this week, with signings most afternoons.  It’s the same the following week.  How’s he supposed to see Kate if he’s got no free time?  He can’t break the commitments he’s made: that’s not good form.  But he can’t leave Kate all on her own, either.  That’s not acceptable.  For so many reasons.  Now what?  He hardly thinks that Kate will want, or be able, to attend any, never mind most, of his receptions.  She won’t show up at signings, for the same reasons.  He thinks rather dispiritedly that he should have paid a lot more attention to what Paula and Gina were concocting.

One thing he can do, though, is ask Kate when she might be out today.  He constructs his text with some care.  Neediness is unattractive, and she needs support, not demands.  _Just realised I’ve got signings every afternoon all week.  Let me know if you’re out other times._  It’s not very elegant, but he thinks it will get the point across.  He looks balefully at the schedule again.  Signings tend to be a couple of hours (after that writer’s cramp tends to constrain him).  Receptions tend to start at 6.30, and tail off around 9.30.  That doesn’t leave much time, especially as he needs to wash and change in between.  Um.  Looks like there’ll be a lot of late evening coffee in his future.  Oh well, he doesn’t need to wake early.  And late evening coffee has some potential advantages.  Sleepy Kate is less suspicious and rather delectably cuddlable.  And there’s always the chance that if she actually falls asleep, he can probably put her in her bed and then spend some time with those letters. 

He thinks about that.  It’s not exactly…the word _honourable_ flits through his head.  Is it really fair for him to know everything she thinks, without her having the same chance?  A maggot of guilt squirms in his brain.  He’s already taken unfair advantage.  But, he justifies, it’s let him help her.  That’s a good motive.  _But_ back at you, says the other side of his thinking, you only want to help her so she gets back to where she was before she was shot.  So she’ll love you.  (Again?)  _Face it, Rick, your motives are hardly disinterested_.  No, he tells that bit of his mind, even if she doesn’t ever love me (that idea hurts) I want her to recover.  It’s not about me.  Well, not all about me.  He should bounce this off Dr Burke, he belatedly thinks.  That might help him clear his head.  He’s done his homework.  He calls and makes an appointment for as soon as he can, which disappointingly is not for tomorrow.

* * *

Kate returns to her apartment after her run feeling good.  She’d gone a little further, stretched a little harder, and knowing that she’s able to push herself physically improves her mood immensely.  And she didn’t have a flashback, though, as with yesterday, she didn’t expect to.  Excellent.

Excellent is somewhat damaged when she checks her phone and reads Castle’s text.  She’s disappointed, she admits to herself.  She’d have liked company on her walk.  Then again, it’s not even ten-thirty.  No reason that she shouldn’t have a walk before lunch, rather than after, is there?  _I could be out around half-past eleven.  Same place as last time._   She presses Send before she can change her mind.  Then she goes to make herself some tea (she’s being good) and find a Danish.  She wants a bear claw, she suddenly thinks.  She misses them, but they’re never as good if she gets a pack from a store as they would be fresh from the coffee bar.  _Delivered by hand_ creeps past her mind.  _Whose_ hand she’d like delivering it stays around awhile. 

Columbus Circle is a little busier than Kate would like: noise and bustle making her glance about nervously, not quite startling but building the adrenaline fight-or-flight response.  She’s pretty wired when Castle appears out the crowds, swift jerked movements clueing him into her stressed state.  When he says _hey_ softly into her ear she flips round as if she’s ready to break.

“Are you okay?”  He’s worried.  But he keeps it off his face.  She shrugs, tension still jarring her, and starts to move into the park.  He catches up, wondering how best to help her relax out of this.   He’s fairly sure that if she’s this wound up already (and he wasn’t even late: she must have been several moments early) then it will not take at all long before something triggers a flashback.  Well, she didn’t try to maim him the last couple of times he’s touched her, so… He slips his arm round her and puts one large, warm hand on her waist, attempting to show her that it’s comfort, protection.  Absolutely nothing to do with wanting her tucked in close against him, in this or any other circumstance.  Nothing to do with that at all.

Three minutes later (he’s counting) she still hasn’t pulled away.  Or tried to kill him.  Then again, he hasn’t tried to tug her in any closer, either.  There’s a small but significant gap between their bodies.  Like friends would have.  It’s working, she’s not quite so tense, no longer sweeping every inch of territory for hostile indicators.  He can cope with that.  And this.  Oh yes.

“Better?”  _Talk to me, Kate._

“Yeah.  It was just a bit busy at Columbus.  I’m okay now.”  He’s not sure he agrees on that, given she’s still letting him hold her.  Not that he’s going to look a gift Kate in the mouth.  Kiss said mouth, now… _Stop, Rick.  Too far, too fast, and she’ll be gone again._  

Kate is simply letting her stress drain away.  Although she wouldn’t say it out loud, Castle’s hand on her waist is not … unhelpful… for that.  Very like last night.  She really needs to get some sort of a handle on why she’s reacting this way.  She’s never needed or wanted any sort of protection before.  She’s the one who does the protecting.  That’s what cops do.  They protect.  Not get protected.  She’ll go back to that thought later.  There’s more to it than that.  For now, she’ll accept small blessings and be thankful.  It won’t be… difficult, exactly.  She leaves Castle’s arm and hand precisely where they are, falling into synchronous step so that they don’t become detached, the familiar cadence that she’s been used to, developed over time.  Though she’s never previously employed it whilst physically connected.  They’ve never (except in an alley, to deceive) _been_ physically connected.  It’s nice, this connection.  Unpressured.

It’s been six minutes (he’s still counting) and she hasn’t pulled away.  Things are definitely going right.  He wonders how long this will last, what trick of the universe will ruin it.  But until it does, he’ll enjoy it. If Kate isn’t telling him to remove his arm, or moving away from it, he won’t.  When - if, if is good -  she does, he will.

Matters are, amazingly, continuing to go well a long way into today’s walk.  Neither of them are really talking at all, but the silence is companionable rather than confrontational.  And very gradually Kate has got closer and closer until the space between them is absolutely minimal.  He’s sure she hasn’t noticed.  He certainly _has_.   It’s killing him, not to pull her in the last inch or so.  But if he pulls her in, he’s not sure that  he’ll be able to stop himself kissing her, and he’s still carrying an arsenal of mixed anger and guilt and desire.   Not pressing, not pressuring, not drowning her in his emotions is succeeding, he reminds himself.  She’s not pushing him away, she’s coming closer.  His strategy is working.  Being her friend is working.  But it’s painfully frustrating, to have to go so slowly. And then he thinks about that.  She’s only been around him for a week.  It’s just that so much has happened between them that it feels like a month.  Only a week, and she’s gone from complete shipwreck to something that might, in not too long, hoist full sail.  So it’s not slow at all.  He just wants more, sooner.  In which case late night coffee, before he’s sorted out his anger and hurt, will be a tremendously bad idea.  Though anger and hurt are a little less present, since he’s talked to Dr Burke, but mostly since he’s been allowed to provide protection and thus assuage some of his guilt.

She’s been out a long time, and nothing’s spooked her yet.  It’s about that point when Kate realises that she’s also been in Castle’s arm for a long time, and that hasn’t spooked her either.  On that note of success, it’s time to go home.  She wants – actually _wants_ – to think about what’s going on here.  She makes the effort to look at him for long enough to make her farewells in a civilised fashion.

“Time I went home, Castle.  Time you went to your signing, too.”  Castle rumbles disappointedly, and as she starts to move away, for an instant he doesn’t release her.  She pretends not to notice.  It’s been a nice walk and she’s not going spoil it now.  Still, a slightly odd action for a _friend_.  Hmm.  Another piece of evidence to consider.

* * *

 Kate’s considering the second stage of her homework, which she’d carefully managed to ignore until this morning.  _Give your own feelings for Mr Castle some serious consideration._   She knows what her feelings are.  Why does she need to consider them?  But the last exercise had been very revealing, so maybe Dr Burke knows what he’s doing with this too.  She applies the same ferocious detective intelligence that she’d apply to a case.  Facts first, again.  One: she’s in love with him.  She’d admitted that to herself months ago.  Two: she’s terrified of it, because she’s expected him  - is expecting him – to walk away.  But she thought about that the other evening.  That’s borne out of past history, not necessarily the facts.  Okay, park that, while she organises her facts.  Three: he’s trying (and succeeding) to protect her: being a friend, listening to her bitterness, and providing the soft touch of physical comfort without any of the previous dangerous awareness; without her driving him away.  That’s a big change.  Still, as a cop she should be protecting, not taking protection – well.  Really?  Partners protect each other – look at Ryan and Esposito.  Look at all the times she and Castle have saved each other.  He may not be a cop, but he’s earned the same level of respect.  In which case, it might not be a weakness to accept it, since she has given protection back, will give it back.  Turnabout is fair play.  She needs to go back to that elephant again, with Dr Burke.  Needs to find a way to accept that needing help is not a sign of weakness.

Which leaves one unknown on her position, and one in what she’s thinking about Castle’s position.  Hers is easy: how long will it take her to be fixed enough to be ready to admit her feelings and deal with whatever the result may be?  She needs to be strong enough to deal with rejection, before she can invite it.  His is not: what does he feel?  Friendly, certainly.  Protective, equally so.  More than that?  That’s significantly less certain.  He’s not been giving out any signals at all, since the coffee bar – at least until this morning.  She thinks he’d not wanted her to leave.  She calls up the memory of that swift protective clasp in the bar.  That hadn’t been quite as neutral as she’d believed, either.  She’d just been too rocked by the flashback to analyse it properly.  Hmm.  And there’s been a lot of supposedly _friendly_ touching going on, that she hadn’t questioned till now.  Hadn’t wanted to question.  _Doesn’t_ want to question.  If she questions it, it might stop.  And she doesn’t want that, either.  Because she’s in love with him and if _friendly_ is all she can have she’ll take it. 

_Dear Castle_

_I’m confused.  But maybe less conflicted than I was.  I still don’t like therapy, don’t like talking, but it’s helped me to understand why I’ve spent three years pushing you away.  It’s time I stopped doing that, because the reasons I did have nothing to do with you._

_But I’m confused, because I don’t understand what you’re doing.  I thought you were being friends, and I could cope with that, and a slow ending.  Now I’m not sure at all.  You’re not pushing me, not asking for anything, and that’s what I need right now, but every so often something happens and now I’m beginning to think there’s more going on behind this than I understand.  I don’t like unsolved mysteries._

_I can’t tell if you really did mean friends, and you just have a rather more – tactile - definition than I do, or if you want something more but you’re holding back.  Right now, though, I’m not ready to find out.  I’m too raw to deal with rejection, however gentle, if I get it wrong.  So I’ll not investigate, just accumulate evidence, one way or another, till I’m ready.  And in the meantime, I’ll accept what you’re giving me, and try not to fall back into pushing you away._

_Maybe we_ can _be something.  I thought it was all gone.  Maybe it’s not._

_Love Kate._

She looks at the letter for some time, before adding it to her collection.


	27. Run for the hills

Kate’s back with Dr Burke, talking through the conclusions she’s reached over the last couple of days.  He seems pretty happy with her progress. 

“So, Kate, what have you learned from your self-analysis?”

“I’ve been letting the past, rather than the facts, dictate my actions.  I don’t need to.”  Dr Burke almost looks pleased with her.  “But”-  he raises his eyebrows - “I also know I’m not ready to deal with the consequences.”

“Mmm?”

“I’m not ready to deal with more.  I need to get used to where I am now, before I try to change anything else.  I’m still getting used to letting someone else take some of the load off me.”

“How are you doing that?”  He is intrigued.

“I asked Castle to come to Central Park with me, and to the bar when I saw my team.  And I didn’t push him away when he put his arms round me when I had a flashback in the bar.”

Dr Burke doesn’t let his face show a single flicker of any emotion other than mild approval.  Internally, he is amazed.  Detective Beckett is certainly taking this therapy, and the conclusions she has reached, seriously.  If only more of his patients applied this ruthless focus to their situation, they might improve more quickly. Then again, his practice might fall to half its size.  Of course, Detective Beckett has two goals, only one of which she is admitting.  Returning to work is her ostensible goal.  He strongly suspects that being ready to embark upon a relationship with Mr Castle is the real driver of her efforts.  He thinks over both sides of that equation.  Mr Castle’s desire to have a relationship with Detective Beckett is clearly driving his actions, too.  Mmm. This is really very interesting.  They need to be honest with each other, however, if they are to progress.  They are each being relatively honest with him.  No-one is ever completely honest in therapy.

“Mmm.  Kate, you said at your first session that you had written letters to Mr Castle throughout the summer.  Have you considered sharing those with him?”

Kate’s jaw drops.  That isn’t something she’s ever considered.  Just…not.  Not at all.  She’d been absolutely horrified when she thought he’d seen _one_ of them, and it was relatively mild compared to the early ones.  She stammers and stutters and can’t get a single coherent word out.

“Obviously not.  Perhaps you should consider that, and the reasons you may have both for and against, before our next session.”

Kate makes her escape before she collapses with the shock of Dr Burke’s suggestion.  When she gets home she makes herself a pot of the strongest Brazilian coffee she owns and is two-thirds down the second mug before she’s half recovered.  She doesn’t give the medical advice a first thought, let alone a second.  She needs as much coffee as she can drink.  If it wasn’t first thing in the morning, she’d lace it with bourbon, too.  Dr Burke’s suggestion has scrambled her brain and left her reeling at the potential implications.   He might as well have asked her to run naked down Fifth Avenue.  That might have been less terrifying.  Probably less revealing, too.  She gulps down the rest of that mug of coffee and pours another.  She only slows up when she’s halfway down it.

Maybe running will clear her head.  She changes and is out the door as quickly as she can manage, i-Pod turned up loud, the driving bass beat of hard rock surging into her muscles.  She runs until she’s past exhausted, collapses on to a bench far into Central Park.  She’s done too much, she knows, but she has to stop the thoughts running on the treadmill in her brain.  She’s done everything else Dr Burke has asked of her, done everything he’s asked of her to fix herself, to get back to being Kate Beckett, Detective of the Twelfth Precinct, again.  But this, this is a step too far.  She’s too tired to sit up, slumps on the back of the bench like it’s her only hope of salvation, breathes slowly and deeply.  Running hasn’t helped at all, and now she’s a long way from home and too tired to move.  She pats her waistband hopefully and realises, appalled, that she doesn’t have her phone with her.  How had she forgotten that? 

She sits on her bench for some time, gathering the energy to get home.  It’s a slow, painful process, and she’s briefly, uncomfortably, reminded of how long it’s taken her to heal, how much she’s just risked because she’s flipped out by Dr Burke’s suggestion.  She belatedly thinks that this was _not_ a good idea.  Forgetting her phone was a pretty poor decision, too.  Some company, or at least the ability to request it, would have been helpful at this point.

Eventually she forces herself into slow movement and finally reaches her apartment, tense and  jumpy, feeling the potential for flashbacks in every step.  The first thing she does is run the hottest bath she can stand, barely short of scalding, adds a heavy dose of bath salts and slides in with a sigh of relief.  She really doesn’t want to find herself stiff and aching later and tomorrow.  She doesn’t emerge till the water’s nearly cold.

Once she’s dry and dressed again, she looks around for anything she can do to distract herself from Dr Burke’s mind-boggling suggestion.  Lunch – check.  That’s a good idea.  Her glance slides over her phone, and she idly checks for messages on the way to the kitchen.  Hmm, several.  That’s surprising.  One from Lanie.  She’ll read that after lunch. Bad news is better on a full stomach.  One from Ryan, telling her that he and Espo had got a result on the case they’d been discussing in the bar.  She replies to that immediately.  _Still need me to save your asses, don’t you?  Meet in a couple of days?  Maybe I can solve the next case for you._   She’s deeply satisfied that she managed to solve – well, help solve – a case successfully.  And three messages from Castle.  The first is bland: _You want company on your walk today?_   The second, a couple of hours later, is a little more exercised.  _You OK?_   The third, which must have arrived while she was soaking in her bath, is definitely worried.  _Kate, what’s wrong?  Where are you?_   Well.  Nothing like a bit of non-communication to worry your friend.  He certainly sounds pretty worried.  She quickly replies _I’m OK.  Went for a run, forgot phone._ She doesn’t tell him that she overdid it.

Castle gets Kate’s text just in time to stop him precipitately rushing over to hers to check on her.  He was more worried than he’d care to admit, more relieved to get an answer: visions of her relapsing and unconscious dancing through his brain since she hadn’t answered the second message.  He’ll go visit her after tonight’s reception.  Right now, he simply texts back _Good.  Can’t afford another round of grapes and flowers_ , hoping that she’ll take it in the spirit he means it.  Though truthfully, it’s covering a huge reservoir of worry.  He thought she’d been taking things slowly, sensibly, and here she’s run herself into exhaustion.  He scents a story, behind the text.  Later.  Later he’ll discover, uncover, the story.  Even if he can’t uncover Kate.

Lunch done, Castle’s reply is read with a quirk of amused lips and appreciation of the cop-like humour.  She’s far happier with the sardonic tone than she would be with sympathy. 

Now for Lanie.  There’s an unpleasant flutter in the pit of her stomach.  But she’s got this.  She’s got back to solving cases – well, helping.  She’s physically almost completely fit - at least until she overdid it today.  The flashbacks are reducing, slowly, even if she’d still be wiped out by a storm.  She can even look at Castle for more than half a second.  So given all of that, she is _not_ going to fall apart as she did two weeks ago.  If Lanie wants a fight, she’ll get one.  If she doesn’t, that’s a bonus.

When she reads the text, though, it’s clearly conciliatory.  There’s even an apology, albeit Kate thinks it was written through gritted teeth.  Well, in that case, she can play nice too.   She considers.  Not a bar.  Easier if Lanie were to come to her apartment.  That way, if things …deteriorate… it’s simpler to close it down.  Not tonight, though.  Hot, soothing baths with plenty relaxing salts or not, she won’t be fit for Lanie’s company this evening.  Maybe in a couple more days.  She sends an appropriate answer, though just as with her original text to the boys she’s unhappy about it as soon as it’s gone.  She tells herself that the evening with the boys wasn’t so bad, at least until the flashback, and tries not to worry.

Now what?  It occurs to Kate that she ought to buy some ingredients for dinner.  Much as she’d like take-out, she needs to keep eating properly, put on the remaining lost weight, and she’s finished her casserole and, more importantly today, her pie.  She ponders for a while and eventually summons the energy to shop.  It’s harder than she’d like, and she ruefully accepts that it will take still more time to be completely fit and resilient.

* * *

Castle has finished his signing and, while trying to shake writer’s cramp out of his hand, is sternly reminding himself that he really does not have time to see Kate _and_ get home, wash, shave and change into something suitable for tonight’s reception.  Reluctantly, he drops that plan.  Instead, since thankfully tonight’s event is not black tie, he takes considerable care in his selection of shirt and dress pants, being sure to pick a colour that he knows Kate likes, and pays special attention to looking particularly handsome.  He wants to show her what she’s missing out on.  He’s not going to flirt with her, and he knows (and hates) that he can’t touch her with any sort of detectable desire, but he can be as attractive as possible.  Maybe it’ll give her some ideas. 

As he’s picking up wallet, phone, keys, jacket, all the detritus of going out to a party he won’t enjoy, with people he doesn’t want to meet, speaking banal words he doesn’t want to hear, he notices his mother regarding him with some surprise.

“All this effort for a book party, Richard?  You’re not normally this elegant.  What’s her name?”  Ah.  His mother is far too observant, almost always when he’d rather she wasn’t.  He gives her a socially practised smile. 

“I don’t know yet.”  She raises her eyebrows.  “I don’t know who I might meet tonight. You told me to move on.”  Neither statement is a lie.  He doesn’t know who’ll be at the party.  His mother had told him to move on.  The fact that neither statement has anything to do with the other, and together and separately give completely the wrong impression, is a trick he’d learnt some time ago but only really seen perfected when watching in Interrogation.  His mother takes the implication he’s meant her to.

“Life’s for living, Richard.  Go out and live it up a bit.  You’ve been moping far too long.  Take it from me, it’s worth it.”  She smiles salaciously, and pats his cheek as he goes out.

* * *

At the reception there are substantial numbers of fans, some of whom are even wearing clothing he’d allow Alexis to leave the loft in.  He’s completely uninterested, and refuses point-blank to sign anything other than books.  There’s only one woman he wants to see in less-than-modest clothing; only one he wants to bear his name.  He realises that, essentially, he’s sulking like a spoilt child who isn’t getting to go to the park (or sleep with his favourite, much-loved teddy bear) and before Gina or Paula can call him out on it he pastes on a reasonable facsimile of a happy social smile and pretends to the top of his ability that he’s enjoying himself.

It fools the fans, but not Gina.

“Pretend you’re happy to be here a little better than that, Rick.  The fans keep your royalties flowing.”

“I know.  I’m trying.”

“Try harder.  Leave your broken heart outside.  It’s time you got over her, anyway.”  How would Gina know, he thinks. She doesn’t have a heart.  “Start thinking up a new character.”

“O _kay_.  I’ll try.  But I’m bored,” he humphs.

“You have to stay another hour.  After that, you can go.  And for God’s sake pretend you’re enjoying it.”

He dials up the handsome, man-about-town celebrity persona another two notches and does his best.  He reckons he’ll still get told off by Gina and Paula tomorrow, but that’s tomorrow.  He’s still got an hour of this torture to go.  He sneaks out for a minute and succumbs without a hint of resistance to the impulse to text Kate.

_At a book party.  Bored.  Wish someone would arrest me._

_No can do.  Benched.  How about Espo?_

_No._

_Want to come over after?_ She knows that’s slightly dangerous.  But she wants to see him.

_I’ll bring chocolate._

_You better.   Now you’ve promised chocolate, if there’s no chocolate, you don’t get in._

He bounces back into the party, and behaves impeccably for the remaining hour.  Still, he leaves the very second he’s allowed to.  Chocolate is readily acquired from a late-night bakery and he’s at Kate’s door – at her suggestion! – shortly thereafter.

* * *

 Kate’s spent the afternoon resolutely ignoring her letters and Dr Burke.  Even the thought of showing them to Castle makes her flinch.  She is definitely not about the sharing.  Those letters reveal the worst pieces of her personality and the depth of her misery.  And, of course, her hopelessly conflicted thinking and feelings.  She doesn’t even want to think about revealing any of that till she has a much better idea of his feelings.

Before dinner, she realises that, earlier bath notwithstanding, she’s already sore and stiff.  Another scalding soak seems indicated.  She nearly falls asleep in the hot, soothing water, hauls herself out and finds old, comfortable, sweats that will go over the soft shorts and tee that she’ll wear to bed.  No-one to please but herself; no reason to wear anything else.

Her plans for an early night abruptly change when she picks up the cheeping of her phone.  She doesn’t feel sorry for Castle, exactly – after all, it’s the price he has to pay for fame and fortune and it’s not a high price – but… she’d missed the opportunity for a walk.  Missed his company.  So she invites him over.  Maybe she’ll get some evidence of where he’s at.  And even if she doesn’t, there’ll be chocolate.  She’d put up with a lot worse than Castle if it came with good chocolate attached.  She thinks happily about good chocolate and good company for a minute, and suddenly realises that she doesn’t have to drink dishwater tea if she can’t have coffee, she could drink hot chocolate.  Mmmm.  That would certainly be an improvement.  Another sign she’s recovering.  She can think.  She very briefly considers changing and then decides that she’s perfectly decently, if scruffily, dressed, and if he doesn’t like it, well, the door is right there.  He can leave the chocolate, though.  But she checks carefully to make sure the bullet scar is completely hidden by both sweatshirt and tee.   She might just about be used to it, though occasionally it’s still a shock to see it, but others are not.

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­

* * *

The thought of chocolate is barely sufficient to keep Kate awake, and when Castle knocks she’s close to semi-dozing on the couch.  It’s just as well he knocks loudly, because she might have missed a quieter one.  She creaks off her seat and lets him in.

“Chocolate, as requested,” Castle says happily, proffering a largish bakery box, neatly tied up with blue ribbon.

“Thank you.”  Kate takes it to the kitchen and delicately unties the ribbon, rolling it up and storing it away.  She can feel Castle’s impatience, and it only makes her slower and more deliberate.  A little deferred gratification won’t hurt him.  When she finally raises the box lid, there is a particularly rich, delicious looking chocolate dessert which on enquiry is revealed to be a chocolate truffle cake, almost guaranteed to induce a seizure through sheer pleasure.  She carefully extracts it, finds crockery, cutlery, looks at Castle mischievously and says, “You don’t want any, do you?”

Castle squawks incoherently but indignantly.  Kate smirks.

“Gotcha.”  It’s only when she turns back to cut the cake that she realises she didn’t hesitate to look Castle in the eye, and that there have been no adverse consequences.  That’s a definite improvement.  Clearly chocolate has previously undiscovered virtues.  Still, cake cut, ice-cream offered and applied, she returns to her nest on the couch a little less fluidly than usual, her over-exerted muscles protesting at being expected to make any further effort. 

Naturally, Castle positions himself next to her.  Naturally, he notices the slight stiffness.  And, naturally, the first words out his mouth are, “Are you okay, Kate?”


	28. Day after day I'm so confused

“I’m fine.” 

Castle looks thoroughly sceptical.  Then he acquires the inquisitorial stare of a concerned parent.  “Really?  You don’t look like you’re moving as comfortably as yesterday.  What d’ya do?”

Kate is no stranger to interrogative stares.  Ryan and Esposito have tried it for years, and failed.  “That look may work on Alexis but it won’t work on me.  I’m _fine_.  I ran a bit further than I should’ve and I’m a little sore.  That’s all.  A good night’s sleep and it’ll be” –

“Fine.  I get it.”  He looks mildly exasperated.  It’s actually covering a desire to make some wholly inappropriate and suggestive comments around the theme of _a massage would help, how about it, just take those sweats off and I can make you feel really, really good_ , but voicing those thoughts might rapidly get him evicted, and he hasn’t finished his share of the cake yet.  He reminds himself yet again that his _friends_ strategy is working well, recalls with delight that _Kate_ invited _him_ , rather than him just turning up, and manages to bridle his tongue, if not his hindbrain.

Kate offers coffee, or wine, but much as Castle would like to take up the offer it’s very obvious that what she _needs_ is sleep.  And although it’s incredibly tempting to snuggle up on the couch – as friends, of course – wait until she falls asleep in his arm, carry her to the bedroom he’s never seen and then raid her desk for those letters, he’s not sure he’ll get away with it.  Especially as the letters don’t seem to be out any more.  He reluctantly dismisses that plan, and prays for X-ray vision.  For good reasons, only one of which relates to the letters.

When the portions of cake are done, it’s time to go.  Kate stands rather awkwardly to escort him to the door, but Castle feels that he can risk a hug, just like the other night.  And just like the other night, he gets away with it.  He bounces home, relatively happy with his progress, in the circumstances.

When he arrives his mother is still up, sipping a glass of what he recognises with resignation as one of his rather better reds.

“You’re late, Richard.  Was it a successful party?”  She invests that sentence with enough innuendo to coat the Met.

“Mmm.”  A small diversion is clearly indicated.  “Went for a drink with some company.”  Every single individual word is absolutely true.  Collectively, yet again, the effect is completely misleading.  His mother looks half-approving, half-cynical.

“Well, I suppose it’s better than you moping.  Try not to get into trouble this time.”  Castle makes a tactical retreat to his study and fairly shortly the light tap of keyboard is measuring out his restored normality in metronomic beat, for quite a portion of the night, until he remembers that he’s seeing Dr Burke tomorrow – or rather today - and should probably sleep.

* * *

Castle’s no happier to be having a second session with Dr far-too-clever Burke than he was at the first one.  Even if he’s done his homework, he still feels at best a B-point average student. 

“So, Rick, what would you like to discuss today?”  Dr Burke’s smooth, neutral face gives nothing away.  Somehow Castle doesn’t think that the topic of _how do I get Kate to love me and into my bed_  is quite what Dr Burke means.  He evades that thought.

“I thought about what you asked me to.  About Kate’s reactions.”  He carefully omits the second part of his homework.  “I think before I just took her at face value.  If she didn’t ask for help I thought she didn’t want it.  Now I think it’s because she can’t bear to ask.  She doesn’t impose on anyone.  I think it’s because she never got to rely on anyone after her mother died.”  Dr Burke looks mildly interested and questioning.  “Her mother was killed.  When Kate was 19.  Then her dad turned alcoholic.  Then she became a cop.”

Dr Burke is quietly and unnoticeably impressed that Mr Castle has worked this out.  In his previous experience, celebrities are rather too self-absorbed to think about others.  Mr Castle’s desire for a relationship with Detective Beckett is clearly a differentiating factor. He waits for the next thought.

“So I think she doesn’t ask because she doesn’t expect to get help.”  Castle stops for a moment to collect his thoughts.  Dr Burke is radiating gentle approval.

“Rick, why do you think she does not ask you?  After all, you have followed her for three years.  You have made it clear, to me at least, that you want to help her, and that you love her.  If she is as good a detective as you say, she must know that.”

“She does know it.  She admitted she remembered every minute of dying.  So she remembers me telling her.”  He ponders for a moment.  “But....” he says slowly, working it out as he goes, “but... everyone else who might have said they loved her deserted her.  And I only said it to her when she was dying.”  There’s a very long and thoughtful silence, until Castle continues.

“But she should know I would help her.  And I don’t get why she can’t just accept it.  Even if everyone else didn’t, I’ve been there all the time.  It’s not just she doesn’t ask, she pushes it away.  Me away.”  His voice rises, irritation deepening towards anger.

Dr Burke listens to the change in tone, and considers.  Mr Castle, it appears, even on this brief acquaintance, is clearly motivated by helping people.  Therefore, if that help is rejected, he will feel hurt, and, in this case, angry.  The dynamic between Mr Castle and Detective Beckett becomes more professionally intriguing with every session.  He recalls that Detective Beckett has not yet discussed why she feels unable to accept help.  He may include that in her next session.

“Mmm.  Why do you think that is?  Have you attempted to help her in the past and felt that you have been pushed away?”

Castle’s brought up short.  Oh yes.  Oh no.  That.  “Yes,” he says shortly.  Dr Burke just waits for him to expand.  And waits.  Eventually, seeing a considerable similarity between Mr Castle’s current behaviour and Detective Beckett’s avoidance techniques, he passes on.  Mr Castle’s reluctance to talk implies that there is an important nexus, almost certainly generated by a serious conflict, between his patients.  It seems clear that this underlying issue will need dealt with, for both of them.  In any event, whatever it is, one of them will reveal it eventually.  It seems obvious that Mr Castle needs to realise that not all help is welcome.  It is equally necessary for Detective Beckett to realise that not all help is unwelcome.  He is surprised that both subjects have been able to work together for three years without resolving this dysfunctional, volatile position either with separation or with sexual intercourse.  In his professional experience, one or other solution normally occurs relatively rapidly.

Castle swiftly and inelegantly changes the subject.  He doesn’t want to think about any of the implications of Dr Burke’s last question.

“I wrote letters to Kate, to help me sort out what I thought.  All summer, when she was in hospital and then when she left.  I didn’t send them.”  Pause.

“I know Kate’s been writing letters to me that she didn’t send me.” He squirms in his seat.  Possibly this wasn’t a good choice of topic either.  “I…er…saw one.  Two.  She doesn’t know I’ve seen them.  I know she wrote earlier ones.”  He pauses.  Dr Burke is not looking judgemental or horrified, which is a considerable improvement on Castle’s imaginings.  He’d expected some sort of sent-to-the-principal’s-office telling-off.  Dr Burke looks extremely interested. 

“I want to see what she wrote.”

“What is stopping you asking Detective Beckett?”  That’s a very nasty question indeed.

“I think I’d have to admit I wrote letters too, and then show her what I wrote.  I don’t wanna do that.”

“Mmm.  So you want her thoughts exposed to you while protecting your own privacy from her.”  That makes it sound even worse than he had thought to himself.  “Rick, that implies that you feel you can conceal yourself, or at least your feelings, from Detective Beckett, while being angry and hurt that she has done the same to you.” Ow.  Ow ow ow.  Dr Burke doesn’t say anything more while Castle swallows that excruciatingly large lump of inconvenient truth.

Conscience is not something that Castle normally considers.  He likes to think of himself as a good, or at least reasonably moral, person: he doesn’t lie, much, or cheat, or steal; he’s good to his friends and family.  But Dr Burke’s just held a mirror up to him and shown him hypocrisy in high-definition.  He doesn’t like it.

“So you’re saying I need to show her my letters?”

“No.”  Castle acquires an expression of complete confusion. 

“I am not telling you what you should or should not do.  That is up to you.  I am merely showing you your actions.  I think, however, that you should consider sharing them with Detective Beckett, and the reasons both why and why not, before our next session.  You should also consider your actions to proffer help to Detective Beckett, and why she would not accept your help.  When you have considered her reasons, as you see them, you should consider how your actions might have appeared.  You also need to continue to consider the reasons why you have been unable to reveal your feelings of hurt and anger at her actions to her.  I suggest that our next meeting should be no sooner than a week from now, to give you appropriate time to analyse these concepts.”

Castle is deeply unimpressed with the amount of homework he’s been given, and horrified by the idea that she should share his letters.  And he suddenly realises that, whether it’s an unconscious desire for a diversion from this difficult subject or not, he very much wants to get back to his new book – the one he’s started to write, not the one that’s new on the shelves.  His fingers are twitching with the need to put words on paper – well, screen.  He looks at his watch.  He’s not due at the next signing till after three, and it’s only half past ten.  He returns to the loft as quickly as possible and is soon several fathoms deep in construction of the skeleton of the story:  mocking up the connections on his storyboard, scrawling suggestions and occasional sentences in various places on the mind-map.  It has the happy advantage of taking his mind off Dr Burke’s unpalatable suggestion about sharing his letters.  He doesn’t pay any attention to anything except his effervescent ideas until he realises that he has fifteen minutes to get to the signing and he’s completely failed to have lunch.  He hasn’t been that creative since before the summer.  Even the little bits he’d written when Kate was recovering in the hospital hadn’t really qualified as writing.

In the cab he’s offered a fifty-dollar tip if the driver can get him to the signing in less than 15 minutes, and it seems that the cabbie’s taken that as a challenge, staring psychotically at the traffic and then contorting the cab through spaces that didn’t exist the second before.  It’s possible that the driver is in fact moving the cab through some quantum space-time warp continuum.  If so, Castle will put him on permanent retainer.  If he can manage time-travel, Castle will pay him anything he asks, including his cab’s weight in diamonds.  For now, though he, Castle, is clinging to the door and praying that the breaking strain of the seatbelt – which looks a little frayed – is more than the force that will be applied by his weight if it all goes wrong.  He thinks, somewhat irrelevantly, that it’s time he started paying a little more attention to the gym.  He’s been out the habit, these last three months, when any reason he might have had to stay fit had disappeared.  Oh well, walking is a form of exercise – oh.  He’d been so deep in his plot planning he hadn’t even thought about that.  As soon as the taxi pulls up, just in time, and he’s thrown the necessary bills at the delighted, maniacally grinning driver, he’s reaching for his phone.

Sure enough, he’s missed Kate’s text.  He sends a very quick reply before he starts on the production line of signing: _Sorry, missed your text, writing.  See you later?_ and hopes that she’ll understand.  Later being after tonight’s reception.  He turns to the first of the long queue and picks up his pen.  Most of his mind is still on the skeleton of his plot, now developing tendon and cartilage.  Most of the rest is on how he could have missed Kate’s text and a walk with her.  Just enough is on what he is supposed to be doing to react appropriately and spell his own name correctly.

* * *

 It’s fair to say, Kate thinks, that she’s disappointed that there was no reply to her invitation.  Still, she goes out for her walk anyway, and tries not to think that it was all a lot easier with large, comforting company.  She’s a little more tense, scanning around her repetitively, not quite starting at unexpected movements, not quite reacting badly to flashes of reflection.  Halfway along, she sits on a handy bench and stops to think, taking herself through the desensitisation exercise that Dr Burke had taught her.  Each movement has been a child, or a squirrel, or a jogger.  Not a gun, or her falling, or Castle running towards her as she died.  Each flash has been sunlight on a dropped soda can, or from the windows of a building, or on water.  Not from a muzzle, not the hot fire of sniper rifles.  It’s all good.  She breathes deeply, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale the tension. She’s got this.  Halfway, all on her own, no flashbacks (yet) – she’s got this.  And while she’d have preferred company, it’s very reassuring, very good for her confidence, to do it herself, rely on her own strength.

She thinks that it would be good to see the boys again,  soon.  And this time, buoyed up on the confidence of doing it for herself, she _also_ thinks that she can manage to see them at the Old Haunt.  Besides which, if they go there, they won’t have to pay for their drinks, and the beer and atmosphere is a lot better than Finnerty’s.  The booths are more comfortable, too.  But she’ll still want Castle there.  She texts Esposito to see when they might be around, and starts a confident, brisk walk back to the subway.  Along the way she thinks, not without gut-wrenching nervousness, that it might be a good plan to get some shooting practice in.  Maybe Espo can get her into the range, find her a spare piece.  She’ll not get hold of her own one, unless Esposito can pull some magic trick.  She can talk to him about that next time she sees him.  She has to.

Home is successfully reached without a flashback, though Kate’s adrenalin levels are running rather higher than she’d like.  She stops by the store for necessities, including a quart of milk and some high-end drinking chocolate.  There’s a momentary pause and then she also adds a canister of whipped cream and remembers that she’s got powdered cinnamon at home.  Marshmallows, now… she adds a couple of large packets.  It’s not like they go off.  It’s not like they’ll get a chance to.

All in all, it’s been a rather successful morning, and she’s riding the wave of self-reliance.  Another step to normal.  It’s not all bluebirds and roses, but she can see the future and it’s definitely brighter than a week ago.

Mid-afternoon, while she’s reading, ignoring Dr Burke’s homework, and desultorily contemplating what she might make for dinner, (dessert will not be a problem, she remembers) her phone chirps.  It’s Castle.  When she reads it, she’s not sure what to think.  He’s writing.   Okay, she’s seen that before.  He might as well be unconscious for all the notice he takes of the world when he’s writing.  This is good: it means he isn’t deliberately detaching.  Yet.  A little piece of tension she hadn’t been aware of dissolves.  But.  What’s he writing?  If he’s back to writing Nikki, is that because he’s been around her and is re-inspired?  She’s not Nikki.  But he can’t be writing badass Nikki based on what she, Kate, is like now.  It’s not as if he’s following her round the precinct and the crime scenes, because she’s benched.  Her thoughts circle round and around, hamster-frantic on a wheel.  She’s not Nikki.  Castle’s writing again, soon as she’s back and he’s seen her.  What’s he writing? How’s he writing it if she’s not out there solving crime, kicking ass?  Maybe he’s found a new character.  He can’t be inspired by her if she’s not working.  Round and around.  She leaves it festering in the back of her mind, goes back to her book, tries to concentrate on it, fails, makes herself a drink, pokes the anthill in her head, fails to get further.  Maybe writing it down will clarify her thoughts.

_Dear Castle_

_You said you’re writing, but what are you writing?  It seems too coincidental that I come back and suddenly you’re inspired again.  I don’t want to be someone you’re just around for inspiration, because it isn’t going to work.  I’m not that woman. You should know that: I’ve told you.  If that’s the reason you’re here, I’d almost rather you weren’t.  I can’t bear it: watching all your expectations be disappointed.  All mine._

_But then, I don’t understand how you can be inspired by me right now anyway.  So maybe you aren’t.  Maybe you’ve found a new character.  That would be more reasonable, and reassuring._

She stops.  Writing has clarified that there is one other possibility.

_The final option is that you might be able to write Nikki without me being Nikki.  I suppose that’s possible.  Unlikely, on what I’ve seen and what you’ve told us about past series, but possible.  I can hope, I suppose.  Because if you really could separate me from Nikki, then I might be able to believe that we have a firmer place to stand._

_Love Kate._

It hasn’t really helped.  The connection between Castle being around her and him writing again just seems too immediate.  Looks like _friends_ , and inspiration, is pretty much where he’s at.  Him writing is a large piece of evidence in a particular (she doesn’t, resolutely won’t, think _wrong_ ) direction.  She hasn’t realised she’s forgotten to reply, one way or another.  Truthfully, she’s not really paid any attention to the second sentence in the first place, and the thinking she’s done about the first part has put it out her head.


	29. Goin' down the only road I've ever known

While she’s been thinking, Esposito has texted agreement to both beer and the Old Haunt, in a few days’ time.  Seems Ryan has commitments he’s made to see various members of Jenny’s family till then.  Mmm.  That relationship is well into pretty serious territory.  It’s so cute.  The potential for ragging on Ryan is so huge, it’s almost infinite.  And the best bit is, she doesn’t need to say a word, because Espo will do it all for her without any encouragement at all.  Thinking of relationships, she’ll undoubtedly find out how Karpowski’s getting on with Demming.  She mentally inserts the word _it_ at an appropriate place in that sentence and sniggers.  Not that she has any intention of exchanging girl talk with Karpowski.  Not ever.  She doesn’t do that.  But still.  She sniggers again.  Poor Demming.

Matters are improving.  Really they are. She’ll see Lanie in a couple of evenings.  She’s seen the boys.  She’ll see them again, in a few days.  She’s getting back in harness.  The desensitisation program is beginning to work well.  And she’s got friends.  That’s a good thing, friends.  Really it is.  It’s what she needs.

So with all these things going right, she’d better think about Dr Burke’s assignment.  Assignments.  One: why she feels she can’t accept help.  Two: reasons for and against sharing her letters.  A smaller Scylla and much larger Charybdis, this time.  Start with Scylla.  Why can’t she accept help?

When she needed help, when her mother was killed, her father couldn’t provide it.  So she didn’t ask him.  He had enough to cope with, couldn’t spare anything for her.  When she went to the academy, she got enough grief and hazing for being not just female, but – it’s not pride, just fact – hot and female.  So she had to do it on her own, or risk being accused of doing it on her back.  Ugly but true.  Same once she joined the NYPD as a uniform.  And in Vice.  And then in Homicide.  And by the time she got that far, doing it on her own became a habit, both at work and outside.  Another learned response.  She feels rather like she’s Pavlov’s dog.  So, in summary, emotional help hasn’t been on offer, and professional help would have opened her up to accusations of sleeping her way up the career ladder. 

Where does that leave her now?  Emotional help is on offer.  Take that first.  Why _shouldn’t_ she accept it?  She can’t think of a good reason, except that she doesn’t want to look weak.  Why does accepting help make her look weak?  Says who?  She thinks back to the bar.  She’d had a flashback.  Castle had helped.  Unasked, but still.  Ryan and Espo hadn’t batted an eyelid.  She certainly hadn’t seen contempt in their faces.  Disbelief, but not contempt, or pity.  Perhaps she’s made her reputation.  Perhaps accepting help will no longer hurt it.  No shame in accepting medical help, if you’re ill.  No shame, likewise, in accepting support if you need it emotionally.  Well, provided you’re not going to turn into some watering pot.  Which isn’t exactly high up her to-do list.  And, not least, Castle – she’s honest with herself about where emotional help is likely to come from – is not part of the professional structure of the NYPD, and can’t (she hopes) influence her career in any way.  Except badly, if he doesn’t follow orders or gets himself hurt.  Okay.  She can, if she wants to, accept emotional support.  Realistically – she’s being honest with herself, after all – she can try not to push it away.  Welcoming it is … unlikely.

Professional support is different.  She has a team.  Ryan, Esposito.  Castle.  She’s been using that for the last  three years, and no-one’s complained.  Cop work is teamwork and she’s damn good at it.  As long as she’s in charge of the team.  And she is.  She doesn’t have an issue with professional help, because it’s not help now.  It’s how they – all four of them – roll.  It’s how she rolls.  A tiny flicker low in her stomach is the only indication that that was a rather – interesting – word choice in relation to her partner.

O-kay.  That’s her first assignment done.  Take a break.  She makes herself a large mug of luxuriously rich and smooth hot chocolate, lavishly topped with cream, cinnamon and marshmallows, and stretches out on her couch, feet up, with her book, to drink it.  Mmm.  Perfect.  She loves rich and smooth.  At least in hot chocolate.  There’s another tiny flicker, this time of doubt, in her stomach.

She puts off her second piece of homework in favour of preparing some vegetables and chicken for the stir-fry she intends to have for dinner.  Followed by a small but perfectly formed piece of truffle cake with ice-cream.  But eventually, no matter how precisely she chops and slices to have exactly even portions, she finishes.  No more reasons to delay.  It’s too early to cook.  It’s not even five.  But she doesn’t want to go running, still stiff from yesterday.  Some grains of common sense tell her that she was lucky not to do herself damage, and she needs to take it easy today, see how she feels tomorrow.

Back at her desk, chewing the end of her pen, Kate forces herself to confront the assignment. _Lay it out, Kate._   Why she should, or should not, share these letters. 

Should not is easier.  Lots easier.  Because they strip her naked and then peel her skin off.  Because they show the raw truth.  Because they uncover all the dark areas in her psyche, that she doesn’t want to see herself, let alone disclose to anyone else.  Because… because everything she wrote in them was on completely the wrong basis and all her conclusions were wrong.  Because everything she thought about needing help was probably wrong.  Because if Castle ever sees them, he’ll be nothing but hurt, even though the balance of evidence is that she wasn’t wrong about their eventual ending: one more book, to fulfil his Black Pawn contract for Nikki Heat (three more books, she remembers, and this will be the third of them; of course he’ll be around her while he writes it).  And she’s hurt him enough.  Even if they’re on a time-limited friendship, she can’t hurt him again.

Should.  Because Dr Burke implied she should is _not_ a good reason.  She grew out of obeying _because I said so_ aged around eight.  She can’t think of any _should_.  She thinks for longer.  Very gradually, an idea curls and insinuates around her brain, no matter how hard she tries to keep it out.  Because then he’d know the truth.  Because then she’d have a place to stand, on rock, not on the quicksand of all their – her - assumptions.

But.  It’s only worth having a place to stand if there’s something to stand for, someone to stand with.  And she doesn’t know whether, currently doesn’t think that, there is.  Because – the last _should not_ – he’s just being _friends_.   And she doesn’t have any evidence at all, now he’s writing again, that there’s anything more.  Before she knew he was writing, she thought the evidence was moving in a different direction.  Now, she’s not at all sure.

* * *

At the end of the signing, as Castle’s reaching for his jacket and thinking that he’s just got time to text Kate (who hasn’t texted him back from earlier, which he doesn’t like) on the way home to change and show up on time for tonight’s party, (again, not black tie, thankfully) Gina stalks up to him, clearly irritated.

“What the hell happened this afternoon, Rick?  You barely made it.  Do you know how embarrassing it would be if you didn’t show on time?”

“I was writing.  Isn’t that what you want?”  Gina looks marginally appeased.  Castle’s temper is already on edge, mainly because he’s worried because he hasn’t heard from Kate.

“It’s better than the alternatives.  But get your priorities straight, Rick.  For the next month you show up at every signing and every reception on time and ready to go.  Whether you’re writing or not writing or mooning after your misplaced muse.  Do I have to ring you half an hour before each event or can you manage to organise yourself?  You wasted the entire summer and your contract with Black Pawn requires you to produce one more book and to show up and promote your books.”

Castle produces something that might have been called a smile, if it didn’t have such a broken-glass edge. “I’m perfectly well aware of my responsibilities.  But the next time you decide to comment on my reasons for not writing just remember that after this book I’ve no reason to stay with Black Pawn if I don’t want to.  Half a dozen publishers will queue up to take me.”  Gina looks astounded.  He’s never overtly threatened her before.  She’s mishandled him.  But, she thinks bitterly, he’d produced nothing the whole summer and the woman’s clearly ditched him.  He just needs to get over her and get writing, and it’s her job to make him do it.

Castle leaves in a way that if he were writing he’d describe as storming out, furious.  Gina’s comment about Kate has flicked him on the inflammable edges of his tinderbox emotions.  He doesn’t need or want reminded about the summer.  He’s still well past edgy by the time he’s changed and ready to attend tonight’s reception, and it’s not dissipated by the twin realisations that he’ll have to put up with Gina and that Kate still hasn’t replied to his earlier text.  He’s just angry enough with the day that he decides that answer from Kate or not he’s not going to ask again, he’s going to turn up.  The conclusion doesn’t actually improve his mood.  He knows, deep down, he’s taking out his temper, like a spoiled child, on Kate and Gina, and that for Kate, at least, it’s unwarranted.  For Gina, it’s only not wholly warranted, and he’s reconsidering that with every passing moment. Consequently, he enjoys the reception even less than usual, and winds up leaving as soon as he possibly can after another sharp exchange with Gina, telling her that he’s done his contracted hours, and since she’s the reason he isn’t staying longer, she can explain it to any upset fans.  He knows he’s behaving like a brat, but he doesn’t want to make the effort to stop.

When he reaches Kate’s apartment, still thoroughly irritated with Gina, PR events, and the world at large, he raps sharply and isn’t much mollified by Kate’s look of surprise when she opens the door and sees him.

“Hey.  I didn’t expect you, Castle.”

“Why not?  I said I’d see you later.” Kate looks confused.

“Did you?  Okay.  Want something to drink?”  She turns away towards the kitchen.  It’s not the enthusiastic welcome he’d have liked, and she clearly hadn’t read his text properly.  On the other hand, he’s in.

“Wine or coffee?  Or there’s hot chocolate.”

“Wine.  The wine at the book party was vile.  Grape juice with meths to provide the alcohol content and possibly battery acid to improve the taste.  It was worse than the precinct coffee used to be.”  There’s a small snicker from the kitchen and the welcome sound of glugging into glasses.

“Here you are.  Sounds like you need it.  Thought you liked book parties – all those adoring fans.”  Castle growls, not pleasantly.

“I’m fed up of book parties.  I’ve got one nearly every night for the next month and Gina’s harassing me about them.  All I get are the same stupid questions from identikit stupid fans.  _How’d you get your ideas? How’d you do your research? Will you sign my chest?  Would you base a character on me?_   Nothing interesting has ever happened at book parties.”

Kate says nothing.  If nothing interesting has ever happened at book parties, well, that tells her something about what he remembers of where they began.  It wasn’t interesting.  Or at least, it isn’t any more.  She drinks her wine, and hides her thoughts behind her bland interrogation face.  Castle hasn’t sat down, prowling round, glass in hand, seemingly incapable of standing still, continuing to express his displeasure with life.

“Gina had the nerve to complain because I was writing, too.  Just because I only just made today’s signing on time.  You’d think she’d be happy, God knows she made enough fuss over the summer that I didn’t deliver anything.  Now she’s making a fuss because I might.”

Kate still says nothing, sips her wine.  So he didn’t write all summer, when she wasn’t there, and now he’s writing, when she is.  Oh.  Well.  Cause and effect.

“I’ve still got to deliver her one more Nikki Heat and then if she doesn’t treat me a bit better I’ll see what another agent can do.  I should never have worked this long with someone I had a relationship with.”

 _And there you have it, don’t you, Kate.  One more Nikki Heat.  Six to nine months, on normal timescales.  There’s your time limit. Otherwise it’s too long to work with someone you’ve had a relationship with._  Even if they didn’t have a normal relationship, it’s still been a relationship, of sorts.  She holds her expression to the bland, unrevealing, pleasant face she’s perfected in ten years of Homicide.  What she wants to do is retreat to her bedroom and bury her sudden misery in her pillows.  Castle’s still prowling, oblivious to the lack of any response.

“It’s not as if I was wasting my time, today.  I planned out the whole of the story.”  He stops pacing and turns to look at Kate for the first time.  “I even missed your text, I was so deep in.”

Some response is clearly needed.  “ ‘S okay.  I walked on my own.  It went fine.  You don’t need to come with me, if you’re busy.”

Castle stops his resumed pacing abruptly and stares at Kate.  Something about that last sentence penetrates his sulks.  It almost sounded as if she doesn’t expect him to want to come with her any more.  He can’t believe that she doesn’t want him to come.  She’s not looking at him, again.

“I wanna come with you.  It’s only if I’ve got to go to a signing that I can’t come.”

“It’s not a problem, Castle.  You’ve got other commitments.  I get it.”  There’s very little emotion in her voice.  She’s rapidly sounding like she doesn’t really care.

He’s left floundering, trapped in a quicksand that he doesn’t even understand how he’s stepped into.  She’d suggested he walk with her, and now she’s shutting down, pushing it – him – away, and he hasn’t the faintest idea what’s changed her view.  _Better think fast, Rick._   He starts prowling again, hoping movement will inspire him – wait.  Inspire.  Uh-oh.  Oh _fuck_.   He plays back what he’s just said.  _Didn’t write all summer.  Writing again now.  One more Nikki Heat._ Oh _fuck fuck fuck._   How’s he going to extricate himself from this one?  He’s just undone ten days’ worth of progress that he doesn’t see her as Nikki, in five minutes of Gina-induced anger.  _You wanted Nikki_ , she’d said _._   Hell.  _Here we go again._   She’s pulling back, into herself, back to splendid isolation.  Into her pattern.  But Dr Burke showed him that he doesn’t have to fit her pattern.  He can have his own.  _Don’t back off._

“You _don’t_ get it.  I wanna come with you.  Why’d you have to argue about it?  Text me and I’ll come along.”

She shrugs.  “Whatever, Castle.  ‘S not a problem, either way.”  It’s hardly unqualified assent.  She sounds as if she can’t be bothered to argue any more.  He stalks off to the kitchen and retrieves the bottle of wine.  Somehow in the last two minutes he’s finished his.  He needs another drink, and Kate doesn’t keep Scotch on display.

Kate declines a top-up, but doesn’t comment when Castle downs half his refilled glass in short order.  He’s come to sit next to her, but it’s not comfortable, as it had been the other night.  He’d been irritated when he arrived, and he’s still irritated now, and she doesn’t see why he should be irritated with her.

“Why are you so wound up?  Gina’s been like this as long as I’ve known you and it’s never annoyed you so much before.”

Castle dodges that question, because if he answers it he’ll have to admit that what’s upset him is Gina’s comment about him mooning over Kate, and asks his own.

“Why don’t you want me to come walking with you?”

Suddenly Kate’s staring at him.  “What are you talking about?  You’re the one who’s got commitments.  Come or not, as you please.”


	30. Talk to me, Don't talk to me

Castle’s temper, frayed by Gina, fuelled by wine, is shredding rapidly.  “Is that it?  Come or not _as I please_?”  His voice is rising.  “Does that mean you want me to come or you don’t want me to come or you just don’t care either way?”

“If I didn’t want you to come I wouldn’t bother asking you,” Kate snaps back.  “It’s not like I need an escort.  I’m perfectly able to go out on my own.  So it’s up to you if you come or not.”

Castle deflates somewhat, as Kate’s words percolate.  But he wants a more definitive statement.  She has to say what she wants, not hide.  “So you _do_ want me to come?”

“I just said that.  What is wrong with you?  I didn’t use any long words but you don’t seem to get it.  Let’s put it really simply.  I invite you.  You come, or not.  Got it yet?”  Kate’s now thoroughly annoyed herself.  Sharp tension has bled into the air.  Castle looks at the possibility for disaster looming up in the next few minutes and decides that this is a fight he shouldn’t have picked and can’t possibly win.  She’s already said she invites him because she wants him to come, so what’s he pushing for?

“Yeah, I got it.  C’n we stop arguing now?”  He’s little-boy contrite, trying to rescue his position, trying to drain his annoyance.

“ ‘Kay.  But if you’re gonna be this irritated tomorrow don’t come.  Not interested in being a punchbag.”

Castle feels somewhat guilty.  But not much.  If she hadn’t withdrawn, he wouldn’t have got so wound up.  He carefully doesn’t think that if he’d been a little more careful with his phrasing he could have made the same point without the problem.  Though, he realises, he’s managed to express his own anger and what he wants, and the world has not come to an end.  He relaxes slightly, though he can still feel Kate’s tension beside him.

She’s still somewhat shut down when he leaves.  He hasn’t tried to put an arm round her.  He certainly doesn’t try to hug her.  Either is quite likely to provoke the sort of response that he definitely doesn’t want.  But…

“Friends, Kate?”  He looks appealingly at her.  She half-rolls her eyes, looking at him again.

“Yeah.  Still friends.”  But she doesn’t sound wholly convinced, and he leaves upset and angry all over again.

* * *

 

_Dear Kate_

_Why can’t you just say what’s wrong occasionally, rather than just pulling away from me?  You just withdraw and hide, even when you’re right there, and I end up trying to guess what you’re thinking.  Just tell me the truth._

_Maybe tomorrow, when I’m not angry – or less angry – I’ll ask you straight out what went wrong.  Or maybe it would be better to tell you what I think, and – again – ask straight out if that’s right.  I’m so tired of us tiptoeing round the silences where we never tell each other the truth.  I can’t change you – only you can do that – but I can try to change myself.  I have to start calling you on the avoidance and evasion.  I have to stop doing both myself._

_I’m sure that you think I’m back to Kate-as-Nikki, thanks to what I’ve said this evening.  It’s not true.  I don’t need you to be able to write Nikki.  I need you to be able to write anything.  Doesn’t matter if it’s Nikki or Rook or some new character waiting round the corner, I need you with me._

_I have to make you see that it’s not about Nikki.  And now I’ve set myself back all the time I thought I’d won, and it’s back to being_ friends, _back at the beginning again.  I don’t want to be just friends.  I’m tired of being just friends.  I want you.  But here we are again: you backing off and me wondering where I’ve gone wrong.  Going down the only road I’ve ever known.  Another appropriate song._

_I just hope you invite me tomorrow.  I can’t say I’m convinced you will.  I just hope you will._

_Love Rick._

* * *

 

_Dear Castle,_

_I don’t know why you should think that I’d ask you to come with me if I didn’t want you there.  I thought you knew me better than that.  It’s not like I’m under orders to let you follow me around.  But it’s your choice to accept or not, and it sounded pretty much like you’re thinking about moving on.  So I gave you the choice.  I don’t see why that should upset you: it gives you the easy out.  I’ll cope, either way.  You don’t need to feel you have to carry on.  Finish your book deal, and we’ll part friends.  It’s okay.  It’ll be okay, eventually._

_At least I know where I stand: that’s pretty clear from tonight.  You just have a more tactile definition of friends than I do.  I’ll enjoy it while it lasts, take the support you’re offering now, and let it go when it’s time._

* * *

 

The next day, however, she still texts him, though she’s more than a little surprised, and inadvertently shows it, when he both assents by return and shows up.  And when some kid lets off a cap-gun and she freezes momentarily at the sharp crack, he’s there to guide her to the nearest bench, though she doesn’t invite, still less permit, him to curl an arm around her shoulders till she’s finished reviewing and is ready to move again.  It doesn’t help his mood, and the walk is getting less comfortable with every step.

Part way round, Castle is gathering his nerve to ask Kate directly what was wrong last night when she pre-empts him. 

“What was with you last night, Castle?”

This’ll be a test of his good resolutions.  He’d rather have led up to this in his own time.

“Because you sounded like you didn’t want me along.  I hate it when you do that _I-don’t-care-please-yourself_ line.”  He stops there by main force.  Otherwise the next words out his mouth are very likely to be _because I want you to say you want me with you._   He recognises this as a need for reassurance, and though he doesn’t see why she shouldn’t reassure him sometimes, she had in fact told him less than a day ago that she asked him because she wanted his company.  So – truth, from Kate.  But there’s more to be asked, and he forgets to give her a chance to answer the first issue.

“Why were you so uptight yesterday evening?  You sounded like you didn’t want me there.  And I heard you say you wouldn’t invite me walking if you didn’t want me to come but you sure weren’t giving off a happy vibe about it.”

Kate doesn’t initially answer, and the gap between their bodies widens.  When she starts, annoyance edging her tone, Castle is not at all sure that this is going to help.

“I don’t say things I don’t mean.  And you weren’t exactly giving off a _happy vibe_ yourself.  It didn’t exactly seem like you wanted to come.  So I left it up to you.  I don’t see why that should upset you.” 

It’s not what he wanted to know.  Her avoidance, even though he didn’t ask a sufficiently direct question, annoys him all over again.

“You were closing up before that.  Why don’t you try explaining that?”

“I don’t have to explain anything to you.  You got what you wanted: I invited you and here you are.  Nothing else to explain.”  There’s a short pause for breath.  “Don’t you have a signing to go to?”  It’s a very clear attempt at dismissal.  Castle isn’t having any of it.

“Not till later.  Why are you avoiding my question?”

“I don’t have to answer you.  I don’t have to explain every shift in mood.  Some days are better than others.  Stop pushing.  Stop assessing every little change.  It’s suffocating and it’s creepy.”

“I wouldn’t have to push if you just told the truth about things occasionally instead of running off and hiding.  Just because you think opening up and asking for help makes you a burden on others doesn’t mean it’s true.”

When Kate whips round to stare at him Castle realises that he’s just taken that concept from one of her letters.  From the expression on her face, he is about to die.  There is a only a very faint chance that he can rescue this.

“How did you come to that conclusion?”

“You told me.”  It’s not a lie.  She had, in that burst of fury and agony.  It’s just he’d _also_ known it from her letter.  “ You said so, after the coffee bar.”  He decides that since today is now officially a disaster anyway he’s got nothing more to lose by making it worse, and anyway he’s lost any ability he might have had to control his temper.  “Just like you kept saying that all I wanted was some mythical Nikki-alike that only exists in your screwed-up head.  I don’t need to see you to write Nikki.  I can write Nikki without ever seeing you again.  So the next time you decide to shut down because you think I’m only interested in writing Nikki, think again.” 

And that’s when Kate loses her own temper.

“And what am I supposed to think, then?  You tell me you didn’t write all summer, when I wasn’t there, and the minute I’m back and you turn up on my doorstep every five minutes suddenly you manage to write again?  You’ve only got one more Nikki to write and you can get out your Black Pawn contract, and that’s what you told Gina you could do.  Tell me where that’s all in my _screwed up head_?  What does that say to you, Castle?   ‘Cause it says to me that you’ll hang around for the next six months and then quit when you’ve got what you need.”

He might have been wrong, about nothing more to lose.  She’s furiously wired up, anger and what he thinks might be anguish mixing in a toxic emotional cocktail that’s doing nothing to help him calm down.  And why should he?  He’s got as much right to be angry as she has.  Anyway, he’s so far into this furnace that there’s no point trying to go back.  There’s nothing left to lose, because it’s quite possible he’s lost it all already.  So he might as well try some unvarnished truth.

“So what’re you going to do, then?  Run away home?  Run back upstate?  Run somewhere else entirely rather than have a sensible conversation about this?  You can’t keep hiding from talking to your friends because you can’t deal with the fact that people care about you.”  She’s starting to walk away, not wanting to listen to this, not willing to have a shouting match in the middle of Central Park.  “No.”  He grabs her arm.  “You don’t get to run away from hearing this.”

“Take your hand off my arm.”  It’s a tone he’s rarely heard.  It should command instant obedience, but he’s too fired up to care.

“No.  You stay put and listen to me, for a change.  The only person here who thinks you don’t need friends is you.  The only person who thinks you don’t deserve support is you.  The only person who thinks that your friends won’t worry and won’t care if you disappear for three months when you’re still half-dead” – his phrasing is entirely non-accidental and he sees her recoil from it – “is you.  All the rest of us care.  It’s only you who doesn’t.”  He runs down, drops her hand, shrugs.  “What you do is up to you.  But I don’t have to put up with it.”

Kate waits for the next sentence, marble-white and just as expressionless.

“I don’t have to let you run away.  If you try to hide, I’ll find you.  Whether you want friends or not you’ve got them.  You don’t get to cut us off because you’re so screwed up you don’t believe we care.  No matter how hard you try.”  He glances at his watch.  Time’s run out on him.  “I have to get across town.  But I’ll be round later.  This conversation is _not done_.”

Kate goes home, changes, and goes straight back out to run.  It’s the only way she can think of to stop thinking, since she can’t spar.  She didn’t want, or need, to hear any of that.  And none of it answered the real core of her anger, hurt and insecurity.  Because there was not one word in there denying that he intends to quit.

Running, at least, forces her breathing to evenness, the edge of the late September air providing the excuse for her eyes to water.  The last twenty-four hours have cut far too close to the bone.  Just as she’d started to think there might be some hope, it’s all dropped away.

She runs until she’s only fractionally the right side of exhaustion, only just aware enough of her body to stop before she pushes herself over into new injury, goes home and resolutely does not let a single iota of misery escape.  When Castle reappears – and she has absolutely no doubt that he will, and that if she refuses to talk tonight he will keep turning up until she does – she’ll be cool, calm, collected and as close to Detective Beckett as she can be.  He’ll see that his leaving doesn’t affect her in the slightest.  Not one iota.  Several iotas of misery take the opportunity to make a jailbreak down the ladder of that thought.

* * *

 

Castle gets through his signing on the basis of sheer professionalism, Oscar-worthy acting and giving Gina a glare that even she recognises promises mayhem and murder if she doesn’t back off and stay backed off.  Because the signing is a little later than usual, when he gets back to the loft he’s got minimal time to change and be gone again, and so he really does not want to be stopped by his mother, with Alexis as interested observer.  Nor is he in the mood for both his daughter and his mother to execute a flanking manoeuvre and start to question where he’s been going the last few days, and with whom. 

“Where have you been all day, Richard?”

“Taking your advice, Mother, and moving on.”  Martha doesn’t pay attention to the sharp undertones.

“Really, Richard?”

 “I’ve got a book party.  I’m in a hurry.  I need to get to Midtown before 6.30.  Gotta go.”

“That’s odd.  A little bird told me” – this is about to go badly wrong, he thinks – “that you were having an … intense… discussion in Central Park with someone they described as a tall, good-looking brunette.  Is there anything you’d like to tell us, darling?  Such as why you’re seeing Detective Beckett, after how she treated you?”

Castle doesn’t even reply before he leaves.  The last thing he needs is yet another row today.  And just as before, he has neither time nor inclination to discuss his (un)romantic life with his family.  After he’s shut the door extremely firmly behind him he makes a mental note to concoct a story that will silence his mother.  Entirely unsurprisingly, the reception is two and a half hours of boredom with even worse wine than the night before, culminating in him telling Gina that he won’t go on a book tour any time in the next three months and if she mentions it once more she’s sacked.

When the reception is finally over Castle escapes as fast as any previous time, but when the cool evening air hits his overheated brain it gives him pause for thought.  It’s only just after nine.  He’s angry, upset, and spoiling for yet another fight.  This is emphatically _not_ a good state to be in if he’s going to see Kate.  A shattering row might be very emotionally satisfying for its duration and ten minutes after, but the minute he’s left her building after that he’ll know he’s blown it.  The alternative, a shattering row followed by shattering sex, doesn’t seem likely.  Or any more productive. 

He decides to find a coffee shop, calm down, think sensibly about what he wants to discuss and, not less important, how to phrase it to get the right point and meaning – he’s a writer, surely he can use words effectively? – across without either of them losing their temper.  Much.

Coffee shop and the largest possible size of coffee cup found, he starts to apply his brain rather than his emotions or hormones.  What does he want to achieve?  Well: one, to try to convince Kate that he’s not around her because of writing Nikki.  Two, to recapture the comfortable companionship of two days ago.  Three, to explain that he isn’t planning to walk away.  He suddenly remembers that in all the earlier row, he’d never actually stopped to answer what she’d said.  _You’ll hang around for the next six months and then quit_.  He knows Kate.  She believes that, nonsense though it is.  And because he didn’t deny it earlier, by now she’ll have wholly internalised it, and it’ll take even longer to convince her otherwise.  He takes a revivifying drink and reflects that stopping to think was probably the first sensible action he’s taken since yesterday lunchtime.  Or possibly in the last ten days.  He sends Kate a brief text, explaining politely that he’s been a little delayed but he’ll be round shortly, does she want him to bring wine?, and hopes that this will start to lower the emotional temperature.  Or, given how Kate functions, warm her up from glacial to merely chilly.  Warmth is likely a bit hopeful, after earlier.


	31. Knowing me, knowing you

Kate is wrapping herself round more hot chocolate (though she’d have preferred coffee) and unhappily considering both the earlier row and the expected next one.  Her run hasn’t cleared her thinking at all, and she still can’t see any future beyond a short-term friendship, because that’s all he’s implied.  He’d had the chance to say something, and he hadn’t.  So she’s not backing off so she walks away before he does, because of her own issues, but on the basis of the evidence and the witness’s own statement.  If he asks (but she doesn’t expect him to) she’ll say so.  If he wants truth, he can have that truth, rammed down his throat until he chokes on it.  Another few iotas of misery make a break for freedom.  She sips her chocolate, which is not comforting her at all, and pulls her detective shell into place.

Anyway, if she can’t have Castle she’ll see her other friends: Lanie tomorrow, she recalls; the boys two days after.  She’d been going to ask Castle along to the latter, but there doesn’t seem much point in asking, now.  Still, she can be polite.  If _he_ asks, he can come.  If.  Doesn’t matter to her if he does or not.  Another iota makes a run for the hills.

The angry words from earlier twist around her mind, biting into her.  She can’t get past the venomous exchanges to search out any real truth within them.  She can’t get past the implication of near-term abandonment.  Another layer of detective slides smoothly into place.  The next iota to try escape is forcibly re-imprisoned.

When the phone beeps with a text from Castle she’s got to the stage where she’s actually hoping he cancels and she doesn’t have to see him again.  Ever.  She’d rather, she decides bitterly, make the break now than drag it out.  Here she goes again, down the same old road.  She should just have left it broken, when she came back.  Trying to fix it, and worse, thinking till yesterday that she’d been succeeding, hasn’t helped her at all, because now she’s got to get over him all over again.  And this time she can’t even kid herself it’s for his good, because this time all the evidence is that he doesn’t love her.  He’ll never love her.  All his words were just because she was dying.

She reads the text and finds that it’s not a cancellation.  But she doesn’t care if he brings wine or not, and she doesn’t want some cosy sociable evening with someone who’s made it clear they’re not in it for anything other for short-term inspiration.  So she simply ignores the question, and the text.  She knows it’s bad manners and she doesn’t care.  By the time Castle knocks on the door, close to ten, she’s talked herself right back into all her summer insecurities, without even the consolation she’d had then, that he loved her; this time convincing herself that all the insecurity is based on evidence.  He didn’t deny he’d be leaving.

* * *

 

It only takes Castle one comprehensive look to realise both that Kate’s utterly unhappy and that she expects another fight.  She’s locked down tight, face and posture revealing almost nothing, in exactly the way she always does when she’s hurt.  She’s perfectly, excruciatingly, polite when he produces a bottle of good Malbec, busying herself with corkscrew and glasses and not looking at him at all.  And the worst of it is, he knows why, and this time he really can’t blame her, because he’s confirmed all her insecurity as late as this afternoon.  There’s only one way to lance this infection, and that’s for him to apply antiseptic honesty.  The medical mantra of _this-will-hurt-me-more-than-it-hurts-you_ has never seemed more apt. 

But he doesn’t start at once, in case Kate will break a lifetime of conditioning and actually talk first.  He’s entirely unsurprised when it doesn’t happen.   She’s not even trying to make social conversation, and he would have to have been wearing a full-body cement overcoat to have missed her complete lack of any desire for him to sit by her.  He thinks for an instant about doing so anyway, but the atmosphere is tense enough, and a little space between them will prevent any … precipitate … actions.  He thinks bleakly that if he’d taken … precipitate … action back before the summer then everything might have been different.  _What’s done is done, Rick.  Can’t change the past._   He tastes his wine, notes idly and distractingly that it’s pretty good, and fails utterly to find assistance in the liquid.

Uncomfortable silence coats the apartment.  Kate is not inclined to break it.  Her wine is untouched in her glass, hiding her mouth, hiding the way she’s chewing on her lip.  There’s nothing she wants to say.  Except possibly _why did you bother coming back_?  And that doesn’t seem particularly helpful.  The longer the hush drags on the less likely it seems that anyone will say anything.  Until Castle does.

“I don’t come to see you because of writing Nikki.”  It falls into the bottomless pit of Kate’s chill reserve, and doesn’t make a splash.  “I don’t walk with you because I need inspiration.  I come with you because you need a friend.  It’s got nothing to do with writing Nikki.  If I wanted that I’d go and follow Ryan or Esposito or even Karpowski around the precinct, because that’s what I would need to know about to write Nikki.”  Still no impact, no change.  “I thought we’d agreed on friends.  Friends don’t come with a time limit.”  For the first time there’s a flicker of reaction, quickly gone.  He stops to let that sink in.

When she answers it’s wholly Detective Beckett, professional scepticism fully engaged.  “Why should I believe you?  Let’s look at the facts.  You spend all summer, you say, not writing.  If you don’t need to be around me to write Nikki, why didn’t you write then?  You had plenty of time.  Now you’re back writing immediately after I return.  Unless you’ve got some really good counter-arguments, that’s pretty strong circumstantial evidence.”

“I don’t write when I’m” – he considers the correct word to choose here to keep emotions out of this – “overstressed.”  He might have used _upset_.  He might with equal truth have used _broken-hearted_.  I watched you get shot and _die_ , twice: once right in front of me.  You might be used to watching your friends die in front of you but even after three years at the Twelfth I’m not.  So yeah, I was a little more than upset.  It’s taking me a while to get past it.”  He pauses, measuring his words.  “I’m getting help for it.”  There’s another flicker of reaction.  “So no, I didn’t do much writing in the summer.  A little too close to the bone.  I prefer my action sequences and descriptions of shootings _not_ to remind me of my friend bleeding out.”  It’s all true.   It’s not the only reason, but it’s all true. 

Beckett (she’s still in full detective mode) is looking a little less disbelieving.  Memories of trauma she can certainly relate to.  For the first time she takes a sip of wine, and on finding it good, a larger mouthful.  This isn’t what she’d expected.  On Castle’s general behaviour, she’d anticipated emotion, temper and a reasonable dose of childish _I want my toy back_.  To which, she realises, she’d have given back silence, shut down and likely a reasonable dose of childish _you’re not my friend any more._   Sulking, in fact.  It’s not attractive.  She thinks for a moment.  It’s a reasonable explanation.  She doesn’t think it’s necessarily the whole story; she can spot an evasion through several miles of deep cover; but it’s a strong counter-argument.

“Okay, Castle.  I get that.”  She takes a breath.  “I’m sorry.  I’m still working through my – issues – too.  Some things hit a little harder than others.”  The atmosphere lifts a little.  Neither of them say anything for a while.  Castle’s waiting to see what happens next.  Kate’s considering whether she can go a bit further with her explanation without opening up all the still-raw wounds.  Eventually she decides that she can.  A little. 

“I don’t like needing all this help.”  There’s a surprise.  “It’s difficult to accept it.  Cops do the helping.  Not the other way round.  We protect other people.”  Good grief.  An attempt at an explanation.  Maybe the world has ended after all and he didn’t notice.  He waits some more.  “So I went upstate to get better without all of you worrying.  I didn’t like” – he notices that the word is not _need_ – “all of you hovering over me and trying to protect me.  It didn’t feel right.  If I hadn’t gone I’d have suffocated under all your concern.  And I hated the way you all looked at me as if I was some fragile wreck, every time I frowned or winced or needed the painkillers.  I needed to believe I was getting better and then every time any of you came by it reminded me how weak I was, how far I’d got to go.  I couldn’t deal with that.” 

She swallows a substantial gulp of wine, refills her glass.  Dutch courage, to get through this.  She’s hardly guiltless, in this mess.  “I couldn’t deal with wishing you would all just stop showing me how worried you were.  So I went away so I didn’t have to see it.  I thought you wouldn’t worry any more, if I wasn’t there.  And then I’d come back, me again, have my life back, and you’d all have stopped worrying and I wouldn’t have to see it on all your faces every minute.”  She stops.  Errant emotions are pricking behind her eyes.  She hasn’t looked at Castle once since she began.  She isn’t looking at him now.  Someone once said that confession is good for the soul.  She doesn’t get that.  But she needs to do her fair share of fence-mending.

She’s said this before, in that post-coffee bar outburst, though not in such detail.  He begins to understand a little more.  Still, it’s her turn to explain.  She still hasn’t really explained.  Though at the rate she’s now downing her wine, she might just lower her inhibitions enough to carry on.  He unobtrusively refills both glasses, and wonders if he should have brought a second bottle.  This one seems to have rather more air in it than wine.

“And then there’s Nikki.”  Ah.  Now she’s getting closer to the real story.  “The whole world knows you based the books on us.  On me.  Nikki Heat, kick-ass, bad-ass, physically perfect supercop.  Never in need of help or protection, always providing it, always a success.  Not stuck in a hospital bed for weeks on end and then barely able to walk for more weeks.  It took _five weeks_ for me to be able to walk from my room to the main room.  _Five weeks_.  While the world’s reading about Nikki Heat running miles through New York.  I didn’t want to be reminded of just how much I wasn’t that.  I had enough memories I didn’t need.  I still do.”  She knocks back another slug of wine.  It helps to dull the pain.  She’s drinking too fast, too much, but she needs the insulation. 

“I didn’t need the comparisons.”  And here’s the heart of it.  “Everyone watching and weighing and comparing and seeing me fail.  Likely not a few of them glad to see it.  Nikki doesn’t do me any favours.”  There’s a long pause, during which there’s another substantial increase in the volume of air in her glass.  “But Nikki was always your game.  It’s why you came to the precinct in the first place.  It’s why you stayed.  It’s been as big a success as Storm, as if you’d needed another one.  And then it was all gone.  One bullet was all it took, and it was all gone.”  Her voice is under total control.  No emotion, no feelings, no cadence or tone or inflection.  She might have been reciting the phone directory.  Her posture is equally controlled.  There’s not a hint of what she thinks or feels about it.  She could be laying out a murder, though then she’d have more passion.

“So when you say you’re writing Nikki again, straight after you start turning up, it’s reasonable on the evidence that it’s why you’re here.  And when the reason for being here’s gone, when you’ve finished this contract, it’s reasonable on the evidence that you’ll find another character and follow them instead.  It’s how you’ve worked.”  She’ll give him truth, and indigestion when he swallows it.  “It’ll take you six months to finish this book.  Then I expect you’ll be gone.  Friendships come to an end, Castle.  It’s just that this time I can see when it’ll be.  It’ll be nice while it lasts and then we’ll both move on.”  She drains her glass.

For a change, Castle actually thinks before he opens his mouth.  It takes some effort.  He wants to ram inconvenient truth back down her throat: shout and yell and release his stress via a violent argument.  But.  But there’s a difference between not showing his – what was Dr Burke’s phrase?  _perfectly understandable and normal feelings_ – at all, and showing them in a way that will inflame the situation and anyway not convince Kate of anything at all.  He’s seen too many murderers try to shout and bluster their way out of guilt to think that volume will prove his innocence.  Just as he had thought, in less than a day she’s managed to internalise a whole new level of idiocy about him leaving.  Her insecurity about him knows no bounds, which is hardly flattering. 

He can’t keep playing this game.  He can either convince her of his good intentions, or he might as well quit.  He can’t keep dealing with the hurt they cause each other.  It would be agony, but it would be done.

The only way he’s going to convince her, though, is evidence.  He doesn’t have an alibi.  So, evidence.  The first piece is the point he’s made already, but it won’t hurt to make it again: whether he writes or not is dependent on his overall mood.  After that, what else is there?  When he’s organised his thoughts, he starts to speak: calm, cool, collected.

“I can’t say I’m flattered that we’re back to this argument again.  But since you don’t seem able to believe that I might stay around based on what I say, let’s try my evidence.  I explained about the writing.  If I’m upset – like I might be by watching my friend get shot and die right in front of me, say – I don’t write anything useful.  If I’m not, I do.  That simple.  Next, I’d have thought you _might_ have noticed, Detective” - there’s a bite to the title – “that I haven’t left.  You’re the one who does that.”  She winces.  Ow, ow, ow.  It’s true. 

“You come back, eventually.  If I don’t believe that you’re leaving for good why should you think it of me?  Or should I expect that it’s actually you who wants a time limit, and you’re trying to blame me for your own decisions?”  There’s a rather nasty pause, till Castle carries on, in the same cool, even tone. 

“I’ve had enough case information for the next five Nikki books.  I know her character inside out.  I don’t need to see you ever again to write as many Nikkis as I need to.  I could have stopped coming to the Twelfth two years ago, and still fulfilled my contract.  The books might not have been quite as good because the case and procedural descriptions wouldn’t have been as up to date, but they’d have been quite good enough.  I kept coming because I like working with you.  All of you.  It’s fun.”  He puts no emphasis at all on any single word in those sentences, keeping his speech totally cool and calm.  “I can write Nikki or not write Nikki after this next book if I want.  Gina winds me up, but any publisher will take me, with or without Nikki, in a heartbeat.  Gina needs kept in her box right now, and threatening her that I’ll leave is the only thing she understands.” 

And one last point, silly, trivial – well, maybe, but it’s wholly within his control, unlike the rest of this mess – and just possibly a brilliant idea.

“You don’t believe I won’t leave.  I don’t believe you won’t run off again.  But I’m more confident of me than you are of you – or me.  So I’ll make you a bet, Kate.  I’ll bet you one dollar – or a bag of Gummibears, your choice – to my Ferrari that I’m still around and friends a year from now.  Deal?”

She’s shell-shocked by the whole conversation.  The last sentences are mind-melting.  He adores that car.  She wouldn’t be surprised if he snuggled it up in a fluffy blanket to keep it warm and kissed it goodnight, every night.  He’d never risk losing it.  She’s seen the way he caresses it when he thinks no-one’s looking.  A tiny flutter runs through the base of her stomach, coalescing out of the alcohol, when she thinks about _caresses_.

“It’s up to you what you do, Kate.  It’s your decision.  When you’ve finally made your mind up, let me know.  I’m not playing this game of hide-and-seek any more.  Either you trust me or you don’t.”  He drains his glass, preparatory to leaving.


	32. To trust in one another

“I…”  She’s standing on the very edge of the abyss, staring down into darkness.  She hates where he’s brought them to, but what he’s said has the ring of complete truth.  She hasn’t exactly displayed confidence in him in the last twenty-four hours.  Anything but.  She’s fallen straight back into all her old habits.  And now he’s called her on that, and all the things she has, or should be, discussing with Dr Burke.  She thinks bitterly that one therapist is quite enough for anyone. 

If she wants his company, it’s up to her to take the first steps.  He won’t come if she doesn’t make it clear she wants him to.  Not now.  In fact, it sounds like she won’t see him again unless she makes some decisions.  Trust him, or not, and take the consequences without complaint.  He’s backed her right into the corner on this: forced her to confront what she wants, rather than running away from it, or ignoring it.

Why doesn’t she trust him?  It’s not him – he’s saved her life, he’s always come back, he’s had her back.  It’s her history, creeping up on her when she thought she’d resolved it.  Like learning poetry, or songs, clearly getting past one’s issues takes constant repetition and watchfulness.

She makes her decision.  It’s not hard, really, once she’s put to the test. 

“I do want you to come with me.  If I go walking.  When I see the boys again.”  It’s almost timid, as if she no longer feels she has any right to ask, or to expect assent.  But it’s a statement, not a question.  Now, though, it’s not enough.  Castle sits back.

“Why?”  The blunt query stops her cold.  Fuzzy from wine or not, she hasn’t had nearly enough alcohol to drop her reserve and inhibitions and answer that fully, and anyway she knows she’s not ready for the consequences it might bring.  Either way.  But she has to take steps, to move forward.  Or lose him.  And she really, really doesn’t want that.  So she splits the difference.  A good way further than she might have gone yesterday, a long way behind where she might eventually be ready to be.

“Because… ‘cause… it helps.  You help.  It’s not so … tense … if you’re there.  If it goes wrong I recover better, faster, if you’re there.  Like the other day, in the park.  And like in the bar.”  She breathes out, slowly, in again.  “I know you’ve got my back.”  And stops. 

It’s further than he thought she’d go.  Far further.  He’s pushed her pretty hard, this night, and at several points he’d looked down into disaster, dancing on the tightrope over the Grand Canyon, relying on instinct and luck to keep him balanced and bring him safely over.  Honesty, that unfamiliar concept for anything between them beyond the superficial, and not backing off -  not letting her run without at least trying to follow – has worked.  Seeing Dr Burke might be very uncomfortable, but it’s been very, _very_ valuable.  And he’ll accept her answer, for now.  In cop-speak, _you’ve got my back_ means a lot more than it says.  It’s not, ever, a casual statement, that.  Finally, an admission he can rely on.  Finally, a firm rock to stand upon.  To build upon.  _On this rock I will build my home._

“I have a therapy session early tomorrow.  Maybe – see you at Columbus entrance after?  Half-past ten?”  Castle can hear the need she isn’t articulating, along with the remains of the necessary confrontation he’d forced them into.  She’s asked, though, so he’ll answer.

“Sure.”  He skips a beat.  “Shall I get us coffee on the way?”

She flicks round, looks full at him for the first time since he came in the door, and suddenly smiles in a way he’s not seen more than a couple of times in the whole of the last three years.  It’s completely unguarded, brilliant and beautiful and so wholly Kate that he’s hard pressed not to admit everything he feels right now. 

“Please.”  And he realises that he hasn’t brought her coffee since before Montgomery was shot, and in all their miscommunications and misunderstandings and missed chances, that’s been the one thing they’ve consistently shared.  He grins back, happy and confident.

“Same as usual?”

“Same as usual.”  And she’s still looking at him.  But it’s after eleven and it’s definitely time to go.  He stands and tugs his jacket on, following Kate to the door.  Much to his amazement, though, before she opens it she gazes up directly at him. 

“Friends, Castle?” she says, just like he’d done last night, but a shade wistfully.  She’s leaning a little in towards him, and he’s sure she doesn’t know it.  If he’d, she’d, had time to process the results of this truth and reconciliation commission, he’d have accepted her unconscious invitation and kissed her.  But she’s not ready, and truth to tell he’s not sure he is.  Which must be the first time _ever_ that he’s not felt ready to kiss Kate.  But one should never disappoint a lady.  He’s about to hug her when to his absolute astoundment she reaches up and pats him on the shoulder in a way he’s very occasionally seen her do with Ryan or Esposito but she’s never, _ever_ , done with him.  In fact, he doesn’t believe she’s ever voluntarily made the first move to touch him except to inflict physical harm or if they’re in the midst of dying.  He’s pulled her into an embrace before he’s realised he’s done it.

“Friends, Kate.” This time, it’s confident and strong and definite.  And if he holds her a little tighter, takes a little longer to release her than maybe a friendly hug should do, well, she’s not exactly pulling away herself.  Anything but.

When the door closes behind Castle Kate is a little disappointed that he’s gone.  Hugs, her slightly fuzzy brain insists, are very nice.  That one could have lasted slightly longer without any detriment to either of them.  And because she’s had too much wine and too much tension and too much truth, all of which have dissolved her barriers for tonight, she collects up all her unsent letters and puts them in an envelope for tomorrow morning, before she can think too much about what she’s doing.

* * *

Castle goes home deeply content.  Finally, finally some honesty between them.  It’s what he’d hoped for, right back in the hospital.  Not as far as he wanted, wants, to go, yet, not as much of his feelings as he’d like to admit, but stepping firmly in the right direction.  His contentment translates itself into a new wave of thoughts which will start to layer muscle and flesh on the skeleton of his book plan.  Like he’d said: when he’s content and happy he writes.  He can feel the pressure of ideas in his mind and in his fingers, itching to emerge.

When he opens his own door, though, his mother and Alexis are deep in conversation despite the hour.  It wouldn’t worry him, except that when they see him they break off and regard him with identical _time-for-some-answers_ stares.  He is perfectly certain of what they have been discussing and what they are about to say.  He fights an urge to run back out the door, buy a pad of paper from a twenty-four hour store and go to the Old Haunt for the rest of the night to write.  He can always sleep on the couch in his office there.  Then, however, he thinks about it.  What Dr Burke’s shown him doesn’t just apply to his dealings with Kate.  It’s just that he doesn’t normally come into disagreement with Alexis, and he’s always found a different way of dealing with his mother, who anyway had thoroughly approved of Kate - till this summer.  So he smiles and says _hi, what are you two conspiring about?_ and awaits developments.

Surprisingly, it’s Alexis who takes point.  Normally, when he’s going to be criticised, it’s his mother.  Alexis is rarely that direct.

“Dad, why were you with Detective Beckett today?”  Castle looks at her in a way he doesn’t often – ever – need to use on Alexis.  It says _I am the parent here, not you_.  It only, however, gives her brief pause.

“She treated you really badly all summer.  Why are you giving her another chance to hurt you?”  She stops, as if she’s suddenly realised something else.  “Have you been seeing her tonight?”  There’s a noticeable flavour of _are you insane_? 

Martha chimes in with support.  “Darling, I really think this delusion has gone on long enough.  You’re never going to get anywhere.  Face it, kiddo, she doesn’t want you.  That theatre went dark when she skipped out on you in the summer.”

Alexis picks up again.  It’s a very efficient tag team.  “It’s embarrassing, Dad.  And it’s pointless anyway, because the new Captain won’t let you back to the precinct, so you can’t follow her around all day like you used to.”  He used to think that Alexis had some empathy.  He’s not seeing much of it now.  He knows that it’s because neither of them know what’s really gone on with Kate, he knows it’s because they care about how much he was hurt.  But they haven’t exactly tried to put it nicely, and however much they care he isn’t going to have his life dictated by either of them.  He decides to start with his mother.  That’s a much easier place.

“I’m deeply impressed by how much you seem to care, Mother.  What’s brought on this unusual attack of maternal instinct?  I wasn’t aware you were acting in Mother Courage.  I assure you I can look after myself.  However, I will agree that your intelligence network is excellent.  I’ll be sure to recommend it to the FBI, next time I meet one of them.  That would be a rather more valuable use of your friends’ undoubted talent.”  As his delicately edged words go on, Martha looks less and less happy.

“Richard, you can’t look after yourself where Detective Beckett is concerned.  You’re obsessed with the woman, and she’s just not that into you.”

“Given your history, Mother, are you really in any position to lecture me about relationships?  Do I need to remind you why you’re living in my loft?”  Martha is momentarily silenced by his tone.  While that lasts, it’s time to deal with Alexis.

“Alexis, I’m sure that you’re doing this with good intentions.  But I’m not going to discuss my relationship with Detective Beckett, or how she acted over the summer, with you.  You make a good parent for me most of the time, but this isn’t it.  Drop it.”  He pauses and smiles.  “Now, seeing as I’m being parental, you’ve got school tomorrow, so shouldn’t you be in bed?”  Alexis takes the hint, and the dressing-down contained in the previous statement, and scoots off, leaving Castle a clear field to deal with his mother.

“I’m not going to discuss Kate with you either.  Suffice it to say that you have _no idea_ what went on over the summer and you have no idea what’s going on now.  Don’t interfere.”  He has a sudden horrible thought.  “And don’t encourage Alexis to interfere either.  Neither of you understand the situation.”

He retires to his study.  Writing is postponed in the face of the appalling vision that had struck him: that either his mother, or Alexis – or worse, both of them – would take it upon themselves to go and warn Kate off.  He can’t see that going well, for anyone.  Unfortunately, he can’t see how to stop either of them deciding to do it short of packing the pair of them off on a transcontinental tour.  Tomorrow.  For six months.  Which he can’t do because Alexis needs to attend school and get her college credits and applications in.  He hopes, not with any great expectations, that his family will keep out of it.

And on that thought he turns to writing.

* * *

 Dr Burke is looking across his office at the large manila envelope which Kate is holding.  She is, he notes, gripping it so tightly that her nail beds are white.  His curiosity is immediately aroused.  However, the presence of the envelope remains unexplained.  She starts at a very different point.

“I thought that realising where some of my hang-ups came from would mean that they’d disappear.  I thought they’d be fixed.”  It sounds like an accusation.

“Mmm?”  That is a very common error for patients to make.  He wonders what has happened, so soon, to make her realise that it is not that easy to heal trauma, especially, as with Detective Beckett, it has been ignored or paved over for many years.

“It didn’t work like that.” Dr Burke emits another comforting noise, to encourage Detective Beckett to expand on that statement.  He believes, though, he may know what has prompted this.  He is not disappointed, and entirely unsurprised, by her next words.

“We had an argument.”  Dr Burke considers asking who _we_ might be, but then considers that allowing Detective Beckett to proceed is more likely to be helpful than feigning further ignorance.

“Well, several.  Or one long one.  He told me he was writing again.  He’s not written all summer and then he turns up at my door and immediately he’s writing again.  What was I supposed to think?”

“About what, Kate?”  Dr Burke is fascinated.  He will have to consult the psychiatrist’s lexicon to find a word that takes him beyond the concept of _dysfunctional_.  This relationship will not be the basis of an academic paper, it will be the foundation of a textbook.  The ramifications for the identification and treatment of long-buried trauma are enormous.  He could not be more interested in the combined case were it a verifiable case of dissociative identity disorder.

“About why he turned up.  I looked at the evidence.  I’m not there, he doesn’t write; I am there, he does.  It seemed obvious he’s only around for inspiration.  And he didn’t even deny that he’d move on after a few months.  It seemed clear.”

Ah.  Much becomes clear.  Mr Castle has done something perfectly normal, by telling Detective Beckett that he’s writing, and Detective Beckett has interpreted that wholly wrongly.  Following this, they have completely failed to communicate the real position, resulting in conflict.  However, there is clearly more to this.  Were that the whole interaction, he would expect Detective Beckett to be very much more distressed than she is currently displaying.  He emits an encouraging sound.

“And then he got angry with me when I said he didn’t have to come with me if he was busy.  Yesterday he just kept pushing and pushing and said I’d run away rather than talk and then I lost my temper and told him that he wouldn’t stay and he lost his temper and then he came round after the party and it all started all over again.”

Ah.  Just as he had thought.  He will be exceedingly interested to hear Mr Castle’s view of events.  Detective Beckett’s version is omitting a considerable volume of detail.  Still, she needs to express the remainder of her initial thinking before he presses her on how this situation had arisen, to help her establish why and identify her own responsibility.  He encourages her to continue.

“He said he didn’t need me to write Nikki and I told him that the evidence was the other way.  Then he said he couldn’t write when he was unhappy.  He said” – she stops suddenly, remembering something.  “He said he was getting help with moving past me being shot.”  Dr Burke maintains his professional demeanour with perfect aplomb.  “Then I told him I’d expect him to quit after he’d finished the book and he didn’t say anything for a while.”

Hmmm.  It seems that Mr Castle has taken at least some of his advice.  Mr Castle appears to have stopped letting Detective Beckett evade him.  It also appears that Mr Castle has expressed some of his feelings openly.  It is, however, a pity that it seems only to be feelings of hurt and anger.  As a psychiatrist, Dr Burke firmly considers that neither patient is ready for a romantic relationship, at least if it is to survive their first conflict.  As a closet romantic, he cannot help feeling that if they admitted rather more of their feelings for each other _to_ each other they would have a very much easier time.  He wonders if he should consider supplementing his practice by writing a soap opera.  He appears to have gained enough material in the last few minutes for approximately three seasons.  However, that would be unprofessional.  A textbook will be much more satisfying.

“And then what happened?”

“He didn’t lose his temper.”  Surprising.  Mr Castle has not struck Dr Burke as a man in possession of a considerable quantity of impulse control.  Mr Castle is, in many ways, surprisingly immature, in particular when it comes to Detective Beckett.  He can also be surprisingly insightful, also when it comes to Detective Beckett.  Very curious.  It is very, very strange that Mr Castle’s insight into Detective Beckett can apparently co-exist with an ability to say precisely the wrong thing at precisely the wrong moment.

“He said it was me who leaves.”  She squirms uncomfortably in her chair.  “He might be right.”  Dr Burke has never been more grateful for the ability to preserve a smooth demeanour.  A lesser psychiatrist would have expressed amazement at the realisation.  He is unprofessionally delighted to be able to treat these patients.  Had they ever communicated effectively, neither of them would have required treatment.

“He told me he wouldn’t play any more and it was up to me to trust him or not.”  Even more astonishing.  “So I said I knew he had my back.”  Dr Burke raises his eyebrows interrogatively.  “It’s cop for _I trust you completely_.”

“What do you think Mr Castle understood you to mean by that?”  Kate looks at Dr Burke, surprised.

“He knows what it means.  He speaks fluent cop, now.”

“I see.  Did your conversation end there?”

“No.  I’m meeting him after this.  He’s bringing me coffee.”  Dr Burke does not understand Detective Beckett’s evident pleasure in that last sentence.  However, time is almost up.  She proffers the envelope.

“These are the letters I wrote over the summer.  I want you to read them before we talk about handing them over again.”

“Thank you,” Dr Burke says automatically.  “Please make your next appointment for no more than a week from now.  Sooner, if possible.”  When Detective Beckett shuts the door behind her he gently places his head on the desk and resists a very unprofessional desire to scream with frustration at his appointment schedule, which has forced him to stop this session at the appointed time.


	33. I'm waking up

Kate reaches Columbus Circle slightly early and rather wobbly.  She’d only gone through with giving Dr Burke the letters, which on _sober_ reflection had seemed a very dubious idea indeed, because once she’d walked out holding them the idea of having them whilst perambulating around Central Park with Castle seemed even worse.  He’d be bound to ask what the envelope was, and however good her poker face is to the rest of the world Castle is surprisingly accurate at deciphering it.  Castle asking questions about that envelope is a consummation devoutly _not_ to be wished.

So here she is, envelope-less, and rather convinced that giving the letters to Dr Burke was a really, really bad idea.  Only, giving them to Castle would have been a worse one.  She stands in the sunshine, shaky with delayed reaction to the session.  She hadn’t meant to talk about any of the previous day.  She’d meant to have a civilised discussion about why she wouldn’t be handing her letters to Castle.  Instead she’d treated Dr Burke like a real-life Dear Abby.  Therapy wasn’t supposed to be about her relationship with Castle, it’s supposed to be curing the flashbacks and the PTSD.  Definitely not about relationships.  Especially as they’re friends.  Tactilely.  Um.

And then suddenly Castle’s coming through the crowd bearing two coffees and smiling just like he used to every morning in the precinct, and when she smiles back she can feel it’s a Beckett smile and suddenly everything’s going right again.  The coffee’s perfectly right, the sun’s shining and Castle’s smiling down at her like she’d never walked right to the edge of the crevasse and put one foot out over it.  They fall neatly into step into the park: Kate far too caught up in the pleasure of her coffee tasting exactly as she likes it to do anything except enjoy it.

As she’d said, the walk is less tense.  But although there are no more flashbacks, a turbo-charged squirrel zips through the corner of Kate’s vision and pulls her up short for a second.  Before she’s taken a second shallow breath Castle’s slipped a large hand over her back and is steering her to the nearest bench, quietly disposing of the empty cups on the way so that his other hand is free in case of necessity.  This time, when Kate’s finished whatever it is she does – he’s never asked – when she’s reviewing, and they start to move on, he doesn’t take his arm off her shoulder, and she certainly doesn’t tell him to.  It’s all very comfortable, especially as there is no more turbo-charged wildlife.  But the arm around her doesn’t shift, all the way to the end of the walk.

“You got another book party tonight?”

“Yeah.  Black tie this time.”  He doesn’t sound happy about it.  “I don’t like wearing a tie.  Any sort of tie.”

“Aww.”  That came with a lot more sarcasm than sympathy.  “We’ll not be thinking of you.”

“We?”  Who’s _we?_ He’s the only one who’s been going to Kate’s in the evening. “Are you going out with the boys?”

“No, that’s a couple of days away.  Wanna come too?  Two nights’ time, for your diary.  Thought we might go to the Old Haunt.” She grins evilly.  “You know where that is, don’t you?” 

“I think I might just about remember,” Castle says dryly.  “But I’ve got yet another party that night, so I’ll see you all there when that’s finished.  If you haven’t been called out to arrest me because I’ve murdered Gina in full view of the entire publishing industry.”

Kate snickers.  “I’ll be gentle when I cuff you, Castle,” she smirks, and only realises what she’s said when his arm suddenly flexes and tightens on her and, not as swiftly, releases.  There’s no double-edged comeback, though.

Castle has clamped his mouth shut against the immense temptation to retort in kind.   _Oh yes please_ is on the tip of his tongue.  The thought of Kate and handcuffs is not doing a great deal for friendship, or his comfort.  But he has to stay away from that.  They’re not ready.  Emotionally.  Physically, now…  Fortunately Kate’s got back to the original question.

“Lanie’s coming over tonight.  Catching up.”  She leaves it at that.  There’s a slight strain under the casual tone.  He doesn’t press. 

“Should be nice,” he says, and also leaves it at that.  It’s not like he can offer support from a black tie event, and anyway the best place to be for this one is strictly on the sidelines.  Possibly selling tickets for the show. He’s also not going to mention to Kate that his family were trying to interfere.  He thinks, maliciously in the case of his mother, that he’s warned them, and if they don’t listen then they deserve the consequences.  Though he’d hate to see Alexis hurt.  He really hopes she doesn’t try to meddle.

At the end of the walk both of them are, for different reasons, content with the day.  Kate is feeling more Detective Beckett than she has in four months: the right coffee, the right partner and the right mental state almost all the way through the last hour and some.  The arm around her is a happy bonus that might not fit with Detective Beckett but goes a long way to reassuring Kate.  Castle is content because truth and expressing at least some of his real feelings has brought them some way down the road of resolution – though he’s sure there are some bumpy patches still to go – and because he’s been able to cuddle Kate for most of the walk.  He mentally blesses the squirrel population of Manhattan.  It seems that they’ve reached calmer waters, for now.  But, he needs to take himself home, get ready for the afternoon’s efforts and search out his dress kit for the evening.  He won’t have much time for anything else, and he sighs when he realises that he won’t be able to release the next layer of his plot.

“What’s up, Castle?”

“PR events.  Ugh.  They’re no fun any more.  My schedule is horrible and I only just stopped Gina arranging a month-long tour of every last small town in the whole US.”

“Don’t you have to do occasional tours?”

“Yes, but I don’t have to do them right now.  Maybe nearer Christmas.”  He smirks.  “My books make really great presents.” 

That’s interesting.  Hopeful.  If he’s putting off the tour, at the very least that means that he’s serious about the support he’s offering.  He’s got her back, and he’s not surrendering that position.  “Do they?”  It’s deliberately provocative, just like she used to when he sounded a little puffed-up with his own importance.

“Of course they do.”  It’s indignant, till Kate snickers again and he realises she’s simply yanking his chain, all Beckett right now.

“Suppose you’d better go and deal with it, then.  It’s nearly one.”  She looks up, none of last night’s insecurity apparent, confident that he’ll be there the next day.  “I’ll text you tomorrow.  See you, Castle.”  It’s a clear invitation, no reservations or hesitations.

“Till tomorrow.”

* * *

 

Kate’s afternoon passes quietly, but not without increasing worry about how Lanie might act.  Eventually she goes for a run to stop herself fretting, not too far on still stiff muscles, but enough to ease her stress.  By the time she’s showered and changed and dispersed a considerable amount of the early evening selecting wine and chips and something to dip them into, it’s nearly time for Lanie to arrive.

Lanie is more relieved than she’d have cared to admit – not that she would have – that Kate looks medically healthy and very much like she’s back to normal.  Looks, however, don’t necessarily reflect reality, and she’d heard about the incident in the bar from Esposito.  Kate’s clearly still dealing with PTSD, but Lanie is very interested indeed in the _other_ half of that story.  The half where Espo had told her about Castle’s reactions.  It sounds to Lanie like Writer-Boy has a plan, not that he’d told her that.  She’s quite acute enough to work it out.  And she’s happy to help it along, if she can.

The first moments are awkward, to say the least.  Lanie’s being painfully polite, Kate’s being a good host.  Until Lanie mentions the Karpowski-Demming affair, when things take a sharp bend for the better.  Girl talk with Lanie – the only person she’s ever shared girl talk with – and some wine, breaks the ice and soon gossip, banter and commentary is flowing.  Though Lanie notices that Kate is saying absolutely nothing about returning to the Twelfth, or PTSD, or the summer, nor for that matter about Castle.

“Want takeout, Lanie?  I haven’t had takeout in months.  What’ll we have?”

“Chinese.  How long’ll it take?  I’m starving.  Do they do dessert?”

“Got some dessert.  No need to worry about that.”

Takeout arrives, and what with the joy of unhealthy, comforting, delicious E-numbers and wine, everything seems to be mending between them.

“Want some dessert?  I’ve got cake and ice cream.”

“Sure, what sort?”  Lanie looks hopeful, and then hungry when she sees the, somewhat minimal, remains of the truffle cake.

“Where’d you get that, girl?”

“Castle brought it, a coupla days ago.”  Kate is careful not to divulge the exact circumstances.  Lanie raises an eyebrow at her.

“Writer-Boy, hmmm?”

“Yeah.  So?”  There’s a very _wanna-make-something-of-it_ tone in that.  Lanie backs off the subject, fast.  She thinks she might have done enough damage to their friendship over the summer.  Even if Kate started it.

“Looks goooood.  Gimme a big piece.”  When she bites into an oversize forkful Lanie emits a moan that wouldn’t be out of place in a porn movie.  “Orgasm on a fork, girlfriend.  Did you say Castle brought it over?”  She wriggles her eyebrows salaciously.  “If a man had brought me this, I wouldn’t be eating it off a _plate_.”

Kate looks coolly amused, though there’s an edge underneath it.  “Not like that, Lanie.  We’re friends.  _His_ suggestion.  We’re good.”  Well.  Better.  Mostly.

“What, when he’s bringing you _sex-on-a-fork_ chocolate cakes?  When ya gonna see what’s in front of your nose?”  Lanie makes a disgusted noise to go with the face she’s pulled.  “You believe he means that, I’ve got a sweet deal on the Brooklyn Bridge you might like.  Thought you were a detective.  If he’s sayin’ _friends_ it’s sure as hell it’s ‘cause he thinks you won’t listen to anything else.  Wake up and smell the coffee, girlfriend.”

“Not allowed enough coffee,” Kate mutters.  She’d stick her fingers in her ears and sing _la-la-la_ , but Lanie will only talk louder.

Lanie puts on a disgusted face.  “Summer taught you _nothing_?  Get it while you can.  Never know what might happen.  You think about it.  ‘S all I’m sayin’.”

“Enough, Lanie.”

“No.  You listen up.  You broke that man’s heart over the summer, running off like that.  He worked out why you’d gone day after he heard you’d skipped, y’know.”  Kate hadn’t known, but she’d told him why she’d gone, anyway.  Just a bit later than that.  “We” – Lanie sighs unhappily – “we didn’t believe him.  Because we didn’t think you were that stupid.  And then you never told him you were coming back and broke him all over again.”

“I’m not discussing this.”  Kate has never used that cat-o’-nine-tails tone to Lanie before, though Lanie’s heard it used on others.  “Yeah, I just swanned off and had an easy summer.  You know, what with recovering from dying and all.  Like I do every summer.  Lay off.”  The words _or leave_ are hanging in the air.  Lanie thinks she’d better take that hint.  Well, brick applied to her head.  Sounds as if there was a lot more wrong than she’d thought.  Perhaps, just for once, she shouldn’t interfere.

Conversation moves on, thankfully, before Kate loses her temper.  Which is not far away.

But when Lanie’s gone her words are still reverberating in the quiet apartment.  Kate’s not half as sure as Lanie about Castle’s intentions.  A lot can change, has changed, since summer.  She’s had no indications where he stands, and the evidence is currently still on the friends side of the scales, as opposed to what Lanie’s suggesting.  Which is a damn sight better that the complete disaster that could have resulted from last night.  She admits clearly to herself that losing Castle would have been devastating.  She has to try to talk to him better.  Or maybe it’s a reason to show him the letters.  Sometime.  Not now.  Absolutely not now.  Maybe when they’re a little more … stable.  She trails off to bed, still thinking about that.

* * *

 

In the morning she wakes early, goes for a run with the dew still shimmering on the grass, comes back feeling pleasantly stretched out and relaxed, stops off at a coffee bar for her daily allowance of caffeine and buys a bear claw.  It’s a little early to text Castle about a walk for later: she doesn’t imagine that he’s any fonder of early mornings than he used to be.  She’ll save that for later.  The thought gives her a nice warm feeling.  The thought of a nice warm arm round her shoulders gives her a rather deeper nice warm feeling.

She’s delicately licking the last crumbs of bear claw from her fingertips and savouring the last few drops of coffee when there’s an unfamiliar knock at the door.  She’s certainly not expecting anyone, at barely-past-eight in the morning.  Lanie and the boys will all be on shift.  It’s too early for Castle.  Parcels, not that she expects any, would be in her mailbox.  And she hasn’t had a case for four months and anyway criminals don’t come to this address.  It doesn’t leave a lot of options.  She pads across to the door, intrigued.

She’s even more intrigued when she opens it to find Alexis, in school uniform, on the other side.  Intrigue quickly turns to tension, however, when she sees Alexis’s expression.  However, she can be polite.

“Come in, Alexis.  I didn’t expect to see you.”  Alexis looks as if she’d like to say _I just bet you didn’t._   Kate’s expression cools further.

“I wanted to speak to you.  About Dad.”  Her words spill out.  “I want you to leave my dad alone.  All you do is hurt him.  You’re not good for him.  I want you to let him get on with his life.”

Kate instantly pulls on her full, adult, detective persona and controls her ire.  She doesn’t have to listen to this from a child.  When she speaks, it’s not the pleasant tone that Alexis has been used to hearing when she comes to the precinct, it’s a tone which destroys suspects: the glacial fire of controlled, directed fury.

“I will do you the courtesy, Alexis, of assuming that you think you have good reasons for coming here.”  Alexis suddenly realises that Detective Beckett is a very formidable, frightening personality.  She also realises, far too late, that this was a huge mistake.  Detective Beckett is not treating her like her father would.  “However, there is no connection between us that gives you any right to come to my apartment and speak to me like that.  I had thought that, apparently being a reasonably intelligent child, you would have understood that.  Since it is obvious that you don’t, let me make some things clear to you.  My dealings with your father are his business, and mine.  Not yours.  I will not discuss them with a child.  I certainly will not accept inappropriate interference in my life from you.  If you wish to talk to your father about his actions, then do so.  Do not try to involve me in those discussions.  Do not ask me about my actions again. Now, I suggest you leave.  I do not intend to tell your father that you came here.  I will leave it up to your conscience whether you do.  But if you misrepresent this discussion, I will inform him of exactly what was said, by both of us.” She opens the door. “Go.” 

Alexis flees.  She’d had no idea that Detective Beckett could be like that.  Nobody’s ever spoken to her in that cold, furious tone.  She’s been reduced almost to tears and being flayed would have been kinder.  The sting of Detective Beckett’s tone and words is likely to bite at her for some time.  It’s no consolation when she remembers that her father had told her not to get involved.

Kate shuts the door behind Alexis and breathes deeply, exhaling fury with each outflow.  Despite the tone she’d used, she understands that Alexis is only trying to protect her father.  However, she, Kate, might be answerable to Castle for her relationship with him, but she’s not, and won’t be, answerable to a teenager, however well intentioned.  Alexis had considerably overstepped the mark, and Kate is not going to let that pass without ensuring that it never, ever happens again.  She just hopes that it doesn’t upset Castle, though even if it does she isn’t going to allow that sort of behaviour.  Whatever Castle allows Alexis to say to him, that lack of boundaries doesn’t apply to Kate.  She wonders idly whether Alexis will dare tell her father about this, and then puts it out her mind.  She doesn’t need to waste any more headspace on this.

And so she doesn’t mention it when she texts Castle to arrange their walk.  But when they meet up at Columbus Circle, Castle bearing coffee and happily telling her all about the idiocies of the New York publishing establishment and their ability to disgrace themselves on cheap champagne and canapés, visual vignettes created by his extensive vocabulary leaving her helpless with laughter, she’s still far tenser than she’d have wanted.  Stress makes her more prone to flashback, and she’s had a fair amount of that this morning.  It doesn’t take long before she’s startled by a flash of light from an unexpected direction, and although it may not be a full-on flashback her reaction is stronger and more prolonged than it has been in the previous days. 

When he’s seen her safely seated, Castle doesn’t hesitate to tuck her in against him considerably more closely than he’s done since the bar.  He wasn’t expecting this: it worries him that she’s suddenly back deeper when it had seemed that matters were improving.   Still, if he can make it better by holding her close, then he will.  She’d said he helped.  And when she eventually emerges, review having taken longer than almost any previous time, she stays sitting for a while, not objecting at all to the tighter clasp.

At the end of the circuit, just before they go their separate ways, Castle remembers that he’s seeing the boys tonight.  He doesn’t want to blindside Kate.  Nor does he want her to develop the idea that any of them are discussing her behind her back.  He has no intention of doing that.  But she’s remarkably unbothered about it: no qualms at all, wishes the three of them a good time and reminds him that he’d promised to come to the Old Haunt tomorrow night to meet the boys with her.  She also says that if it’s not raining she’ll let him know what time she’ll be out. All in all, flashbacks are unpleasant in the extreme but they’ve managed to preserve companionable peace for a whole day, which is currently almost a record.


	34. The boys are back

It being almost the only day this week that Castle doesn’t have some form of afternoon commitment, he’s in his study writing when Alexis gets home from school.  Unusually, she doesn’t come in to say _hi_ , and when he emerges instead she mutters something from halfway up the stairs and claims too much homework to have time to chat.  He returns to his own work and thinks that whatever minor issue has upset his daughter he’ll surely find out about it at dinner.  He just hopes it’s not a boyfriend.  His own history does not give him much of a moral high-ground when it comes to advice on relationships.

Dinner is a remarkably silent meal.  Alexis is clearly upset, but neither humour nor sympathy can extract what’s wrong.  Castle’s really very worried.  It’s just not like her to be this miserable and not tell him why.  He tries again.

“What’s wrong, pumpkin?  Did a test not go so well?”

“No.”

“Someone upset you at school?”

“No.”

“Are you sick?”

“No.”

“So what’s wrong?  Will some ice-cream fix it?”

“No.”  Okay, that’s exhausted all the obvious options. 

“You know you can tell me anything, right?  No matter how bad it is.”

“Yes.”  Well, it’s a change from _no_.  It’s no more informative, though.  He can’t think of anything that could be so bad that Alexis shouldn’t be able to tell him about it.  He waits, and looks more closely at her.  Definitely seriously upset.  Under it, though… there’s something else.  He’s not sure what it is. 

“C’mon, pumpkin.  What’s the problem?  You can’t have done anything that bad.”  Alexis looks, if possible, even more woeful.

“You don’t understand, Dad.  I did something really, really stupid.”  Castle abruptly gets a very bad feeling about what’s coming.  Surely his amazing daughter can’t have been doing drugs?  Or be pregnant?  Oh God.  Surely she hasn’t been stealing police horses?

“I told you, sweetheart, you can tell me anything.”

“You’ll hate me.”

“No.  Not possible.  No matter what you’ve done, I’ll not hate you.”

“Promise?”  She sounds very young, looking for reassurance.

“Promise.  Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“I…” she stops and starts again with a stutter.  “I… I-went-to-see-Detective-Beckett-and…”

“And, Alexis?”   Castle can already see what happened, and just as he’d predicted it hadn’t been pretty.  Kate in full Detective mode is scary.  Kate in full and furious Detective mode is terrifying.

“…and-tell-her-to-leave-you-alone.”

There’s a short silence.  Castle is turning over in his mind how to deal with this.  He’s deeply disappointed that Alexis hadn’t accepted his clear statement to drop it.  On the other hand, it certainly looks like Kate hadn’t spared Alexis anything.  He doesn’t need to add anything to what Kate’s done.  He just wishes it hadn’t been necessary.  He doesn’t need Kate and Alexis any more at odds than they had been.  Well, than Alexis had been.  Another complication he didn’t need.

“Well, I don’t hate you.”  Alexis looks marginally happier.  “But I’m very disappointed in you.”  Her face falls again.  “I told you not to get involved.  I don’t think I need to say anything more, do I?”

“But…”

“No buts, Alexis.  You decided to ignore me and it looks to me like you’re suffering the consequences.  I’m not going to add to whatever Detective Beckett said to you, but I’m not going to make you feel better about it.”

He watches Alexis retire rapidly, not even waiting to see if Castle will provide a forgiving hug.  He’s not inclined to let her off the lesson, though of course he’ll forgive her.  He doesn’t suppose that Kate will, in any hurry.  Kate tends to cuddle her grudges close.  And on that note, he’d better get ready to see the boys. 

* * *

 

Sitting at the Old Haunt, the boys having not yet arrived, Castle’s mentally plotting yet more pieces of his latest novel and gradually lowering the level of his beer.  He’s not been in here since… oh.  Since he’d told the others that Kate had run off because she thought she was protecting them.   He hadn’t realised he’d been avoiding it.  Another step back towards normal – and they’ll be here again tomorrow, the four of them.  Just like it used to be.  And here come the boys.

“Yo, Castle,” comes in synch from them.

“Hey.” 

Fist bumps are exchanged, beers acquired, in quantity, and the small table is crowded with bottles and some suitably masculine bar food.  There’s barely room to lean on it.  All the male bonding rituals that are necessary are comfortably completed.  While the first couple of rounds sink in, talk is mainly of baseball, basketball and football; and the precinct.  Castle knows very little about the first three, instead being exceedingly well informed about the relative merits of every on and off-Broadway production of the last five years or so.  Still, he thinks that would be more of a monologue than a discussion.  He’s never seen any signs that Ryan (faintly possible) or Esposito (mind-bogglingly unlikely) are interested in the theatre, beyond, back in the day, the back row of the movies.  Kate might be… he’s never really asked.  But the boys have moved on to discussing cases and the precinct and the new Captain, who although not so new now, four months since Montgomery died, is still as iron-assed as on her first day.  It doesn’t sound like there’s any chance of him getting back any time soon.  Some more beers are sunk, and replaced, while the lack of fun at the precinct right now is collectively bemoaned.  Which current of beer and complaint naturally flows into the next topic.

“So, Castle.”  That’s not far off Esposito’s interrogation voice.  “You and Beckett, huh?  Wanna explain how come you were on her shoulder last week?”  There’s a clear tang of _if she needs help that’s our job, we’re the cops here_.

“She asked me to come along.”  There’s a short break while both cops take a substantial swig of beer to help them swallow that.  Ryan recovers first.

“Beckett – _Beckett?_ – _asked_ you to come?”  He’s nearly squeaking in shock.

“Yep.”

Esposito glares suspiciously at Castle.

“How did you swing that?”

“I didn’t.  She asked.  Unprompted.”  He decides there’s no imminent harm in giving the boys a flavour of how matters currently stand.  Minus the fights, though.  And the physical contact.  It’ll be a short tale, then.  “She needs her friends, and I can mostly arrange my schedule to be able to go with her if she asks me.”  The boys are now regarding him with the same protective, paternal, hostile gleam that he would use on any boy Alexis saw.  It’s comfortingly familiar.  He’s seen it on and off, mostly on, for all of the last three years.

“Go where?”  They make it sound like he’s dragging Kate into some seedy club, or bondage parlour.  _That’s not a helpful thought, Rick_.  It certainly wasn’t.  Memories of cases past rise up (also not a helpful thought) before he can stop them.  He tries to recover some semblance of cool.

“Central Park, mostly.  Some exercise the shrink set her.”  He doesn’t mention the flashbacks and startlements.  Nor the nature of his support.  But Ryan’s nodding slowly and thoughtfully.

“That’ll be the desensitisation exercises.”  Espo looks at his partner open-mouthed.  Castle’s pretty surprised, too.

“How’d ya know that?”  Ryan colours.

“Well… after you said Castle said that Beckett zoned out, and we found out she flunked the psych eval, I… er… looked up PTSD.  An’ that was one of the fixes.”  He’s still red.  Cops don’t admit to caring, even when they do.

“How’s it work?”  Castle’s glad Esposito asked that.  It means he doesn’t have to.  He’s never felt able to ask Kate.

“If you have a flashback, you think through what actually triggered it, not what the flashback is about.  So it might be sunlight off a window, not a muzzle flash.  An’ you do that till you calm down.”  More beer disappears, while they all think about that for a while.  Esposito, however, is not deflected from his main line of questioning for long.

“Why’re you goin’ with her, Castle?”

“She asked me.”

“An’ I suppose she asked you to come to that bar the other night?”

“Yeah.”  He can see the lights of the oncoming train heading full speed towards him. 

“So how does goin’ for walks and comin’ to bars turn into cuddlin’ up when Beckett got spooked?”  Castle thinks that _good luck?_ is not, perhaps, the best answer to that.  He likes living.  He downs a substantial chug of beer and signals the bartender for more.

“It helped, didn’t it?  It seemed like a good plan.”  Esposito’s stare would drill through concrete without a hitch.

“Didn’t look to us like you stopped to think at all.  Looked to us like you seized your opportunity.  Whatcha doin’ here, Castle?  Using her needin’ support to make a move?”

“Say what?”  He doesn’t believe he just heard that.

“You’ve spent three years waiting your chance and failing to get with Beckett, and now she needs help and – how convenient – you’re right there.  Finally in a position to get what you wanted.”  Ryan’s nearly as laser-like as Esposito.

Castle glares back at them.  “Are you actually asking me my intentions, like a pair of Victorian fathers?  You were right there in the cemetery.”  He stops momentarily, reminded, horribly, of those awful minutes under a hard blue sky, watching bright blood pour on to green grass.

“Yeah, we all heard you.  So?  You thought she’d ditched you when she skipped town.  You sure you’re not planning a bit of payback?”  He can’t even leave, trapped between them.  How can they even think this?

“If you think that, you’re both so off your heads you ought to be in Bellevue.”  He stops before he punctuates that sentence with _assholes_.  Or something worse.  “If you think I’m doing _anything_ Beckett wouldn’t be okay with when she’s better you’re stupider than I thought.  And if you don’t know…” He stops, looks down at the table.  The next words are likely to get him thrown out the _Real Men Don’t Talk About It_ club.  “Hell, if you haven’t worked out that she’s not a _game_ to me then you’re no detectives.”

When he looks up from the table again both men are surveying him with the same tacit approval they’d displayed in the bar the other night.

“Oh, we believe you, bro.”  Esposito’s grinning evilly.  “We just wanted to make you admit it out loud.”  Castle chokes and splutters on the mouthful of beer he’s just slugged back.

“Yeah,” adds Ryan, “couldn’t really miss it, what with you yelling it to Manhattan and all.  An’ the way you reacted last week.  ‘S really cute.”  Esposito punctuates that with a disgusted noise.

“You…you…you…” He’s lost for words.  Espo and Ryan are still snickering and high-fiving while he struggles for breath and composure.  But then they turn serious.

“We want Beckett back on the team.  If you can help her fix it, we got your back.  Both your backs.”  Esposito glares, back to menacing.  “If you hurt her, you’ll regret it.”  That’s just a step too far for Castle.

“If you upset Beckett – either of you - you will too.  Cuts both ways.”  Ryan and Esposito look at each other, look at Castle, read the absolute promise on his face.

“We get it,” Ryan agrees.

All primitive, protective, alpha-male instincts satisfied, conversation moves away from the unmanly subject of feelings and back to sport, beer, homicide cases, more beer, pool, further beer and eventually, too much beer and too much time later, to leaving.

But as they go Espo mutters embarrassedly, when Ryan isn’t listening, “We know you’ll do it right, bro,” and disappears in short order, fleeing his unusual outbreak of emotion.

* * *

 

Martha is still up when Castle rolls in, slightly better lubricated than he has been in some time, some way past midnight.  He’s ready to fall into bed, morning likely to come too soon.  Sadly for that plan, it’s obvious his mother has something to say.  He suspects, given that she and Alexis have had the whole evening to discuss Alexis’s woes, that his mother is about to interfere.  Again.  He’s not disappointed.

“How could you let Katherine Beckett upset Alexis like that?  You should be defending your daughter, not agreeing with a woman who doesn’t even care about you.  Alexis is heartbroken.  She was only trying to help.”  It’s typical Martha dramatics, a whole desert constructed on one grain of sand.  Oh well.

“Mother,” Castle says resignedly, “did Alexis actually tell you what happened or are you constructing a drama?”  Martha stops fulminating for an instant.  Castle takes advantage of it with alacrity.  She’s unlikely to be silent for long.  “Alexis chose to ignore me telling her to drop it and went round to Kate’s to tell her to stay away from me.  Now, leaving aside the minor little point that I didn’t think Alexis knew where Kate lives, so maybe you can tell me how she found out?” -  there’s a brief unpleasant hiatus and Martha blushes  – “do you really think that was a good idea?”

Martha’s mouth opens and shuts a few times, without any intelligible words emerging.  Castle decides to point the lesson a little more acutely.  He doesn’t need another round of this.  Dealing with Kate’s issues is difficult enough without being sucker-punched by his own family along the way.  He wishes plaintively that they’d just let it – him – be.

“Alexis chose to go and try to tell Kate what to do.  If she’s old enough to make that decision, she’s also old enough to take the consequences.  If she doesn’t like them, that’s for her to deal with.  I told you both not to interfere, because I knew exactly what would happen if you did.”  He shrugs unhappily.  “I can’t protect Alexis from her own actions forever.  I don’t like what’s happened either, and I’m sure Alexis is feeling very sore right now, but I’m not going to interfere.  Alexis needs to work it out herself.”  He waits for a moment, but Martha’s not saying anything.  He decides to leave it there.  He doesn’t see that there’s a good fix for this latest mess.  Maybe sleep will give him some ideas.

* * *

 

It doesn’t. 

Striding rather more briskly than before round Central Park on a grey, dull morning, hoping it doesn’t start to rain, Castle decides that he’d better let Kate know that he’s aware of Alexis’s actions.

“Alexis ‘fessed up to going to see you.”  Kate tenses immediately.  “I don’t need to know what you said.  I’d told her not to interfere and she chose to.  How you deal with it is up to you.  But...” Kate’s defensive lines are gathering.  “... if she does come and apologise, would you accept it?  Please?  I don’t want everyone fighting.” 

He can feel Kate relax.  She’d obviously expected him to defend Alexis.  And if he hadn’t told Alexis not to interfere, he probably would have.  She even agrees, though she’s hardly warm and fuzzy about it.  Still, he guesses that he’s lucky she’s agreed at all.  He’s been on the wrong end of Kate’s wrath often enough that he can imagine exactly how Kate reacted and then how Alexis felt.  He also suspects that if Alexis manages to bring herself to apologise at all it will take some time.  Oh well.  He didn’t expect that Kate would be coming by the loft for casual chit-chat – or anything else - any time soon anyway.

Air cleared – at least on the subject of Alexis – they progress in their becoming-accustomed-to-this fashion, Kate unwittingly getting closer in until Castle doesn’t – can’t – resist any longer and, even though there hasn’t been a flashback or as much of a hint of a startle, brings his arm up round her, sure it’s what Kate wants.  He’s not wrong.  She tucks in neatly and the remainder of their circuit is conducted in comfortable, comforting closeness.

“Are you going to meet us at the Old Haunt later, Castle?”

“Sure.  After the latest boring book party.  Why I let Gina and Paula run my schedule like this…” He trails off.  He knows why he allowed it.  He was too miserable to object, too desperate to fill his time.  “If there’re any really interesting cases, will you save them till I get there?”

“Why?  Do you think that CIA operatives, conspiracy theories and aliens will really figure in the answer?”

Castle pouts.  “They might,”  he says sulkily.  “Just because they don’t often.”

“Or ever.”

“That’s not true.  We’ve had the FBI, the CIA, and Chinese spies.”

“But not aliens.  There are no aliens. This is not the X-files.”  Castle makes disappointed noises.

“You have no imagination, Beckett.”  He doesn’t even think that he’s called her by the familiar cop surname, caught up in a moment just like it used to be at the precinct: he theorising wildly, she completely disbelieving (and probably right).  “You need to expand your horizons.”

“What, like yours?  You’re so expanded you’re a gas giant.”  Castle splutters.  That could be taken in quite a number of ways and all of them are insulting, one way or another.  Kate carries on, ignoring the wrathful mutters.  “But I promise if it’s a really interesting case we’ll wait till you get there.  Standard murders we’ll deal with first.”

They’ve reached the park gates.  Kate wriggles out of Castle’s arm, rather more slowly than she might have.  “See you later, Castle.”  She grins evilly.  “Enjoy the signing.  And the party.  And Gina’s company.”

Castle hrrmphs.  “Shan’t,” he says, exactly like the nine-year old he acts.  And then grows up.  “I’ll be good.  It sells books.  I’ll see you all later – should be around half-past nine.  Try not to let Ryan and Espo drink all the beer before I get there?  I need the bar to make some profits.”

Kate grins and leaves.  As she’s on the subway home, she thinks that being back on good – she ignores the word _close_ running through her head – terms is really very nice.  Maybe there is a hope, after all.  Maybe a little – encouragement – might flush it out of cover.  Mmm.  Encouragement.  Like today.  But maybe that should wait till she’s decided what to do with her letters.  Or maybe she should try encouragement to see if that helps decide what to do with those letters.  She remembers that Dr Burke is reading them, and cringes.  She’ll see him tomorrow, and that’s not going to be fun.


	35. Risin' up to the challenge

In default of anything else to do, and unusually devoid of inspiration (at least by the standards of the last few days), Castle supposes rather reluctantly that he ought to make a start on Dr Burke’s exercises.  What were they now?  Oh yes.  Ugh.  Why, or why not, to share the letters.  That’s terrifying.  He parks that in a long-stay section.  Why Kate wouldn’t accept his help, and what she might think of his actions.  That’s just difficult.  He doesn’t understand that at all.  If he did, they’d be in a very different place.  He tries hard not to think about his bedroom, at that.  He parks that one in the medium-term lot.  Why he couldn’t tell Kate how he felt about her actions.  Ah.  That one’s easy.  He’s done that one, and he’s changed his behaviour, and the world has not come to an end.  Though he feels he may have avoided apocalypse by the narrowest possible margin.  _But it worked_ , he tells himself proudly.  So if Dr Burke’s advice worked in one area, he ought to do the homework to see if it works elsewhere.  Hmm.  Letters, or helping?  Letters is an easier topic, it just scares him rather more.  Letters, then.

He sits and ponders, for a bit, trying to organise his thoughts out of the fog of sheer horror at the thought of Kate reading them.   Why should she?  He can’t think of a good reason yet.  That goes back to the long-stay lot.  Why shouldn’t she?  Where to start?  Reasons tumble over themselves to get out the parking space.  Because he’s made some flippant comments that she’ll kill him for.   Because he’s made some comments about taking her to bed which she might also kill him for.   _Stop avoiding the truth, Rick_.  Because he’s written in words of one syllable how he feels, and she might not feel the same.  For all the progress of the last days (and the shattering rows and catharses not withstanding), he still thinks she needs a friend: she’s not ready for more.  Despite the arms, and the hugs, and the closeness.  It’s still too early, too raw, too unstable.  Because he’s exposed all his other feelings: hurt, anger, bitterness, insecurity, cowardice; and he doesn’t want her to see the unpleasant side of him.  Because it would tell her he’d read her letter. Because she might be hurt, especially that fury-soaked letter when he’d found she’d left, run away again.  Because she might leave, if she knows all his secrets, this time for good.

Why should she read them, then?  Only one reason occurs to him.  Because then she’d know the truth.  Because then they’d have a place to stand, on solid ground.  No more lies, or misunderstandings, or miscommunications.  _A place to stand, and someone to stand with._

Perhaps the solution is to let Dr Burke read them.  A neutral view.  Then he can decide what to do.  No need to decide now.  None at all.

* * *

 

This time, Kate is looking forward to seeing the boys.  There’s not likely to be that initial awkwardness, and seeing as she’d solved their case for them (she’s still smirking smugly over that) they’ll not scruple to tell her all about all the current cases in the hope that the same will happen again.  She’s looking forward to the shop talk, getting back in the game.  And, she thinks, she’ll convince Esposito to get her into the range.  She ignores the twinge in the pit of her stomach at the thought.  Everything’s so much better, she can take the next step.  She’s got this.

She’s just a little nervous going back down into the Old Haunt after so long away, and more so when she realises that she’s beaten the boys there.  Still, she can do this.  She’s got this.  She orders beers for all of them, and some fries to soak up the alcohol.  She’s a little more susceptible than she used to be – the other night had proved that – and she doesn’t want to be embarrassed.  Or need taken home. 

She’s only a few mouthfuls into the beer and fries when Esposito and Ryan come in, sliding into the booth and – just as always – leaving Kate with an open side, where Castle always sat.  Will sit, later on, she thinks, and on that note tells them that Castle will show up when his – quote - very boring book party - is all finished, and he’ll certainly need a lot of beer.

 “So, Ryan, which of your cases do you need me to solve for you this time?  Seeing as you couldn’t do the last one without me.”

“We didn’t want to spoil your vacation again.  You need a bit of work on your suntan, time to paint your nails, that sort of thing.”  Esposito snickers as Ryan continues.  “You know, pretty yourself up a bit.  You don’t want to ruin our reputation as sharp-dressed men.  Can’t be seen around with someone who isn’t up to our standards.”

Kate doesn’t rise to the bait.  She looks moderately disbelieving.  “Ryan, on the thankfully rare occasions I’m forced to notice a copy of GQ, three piece brown suits and ties, or polyester jumpers, were not part of what the well-dressed man-about-town was wearing.  Nor were scruffy T-shirts with medallions, Espo.”  She pauses for effect.  “But I do hear that trendy men wear eyeliner and mascara, so I’ll lend you some.”  She thinks she may have inadvertently killed her team.  Both of them seem to be choking on their beer.  “Is something wrong?”

Esposito growls.  “If you suggest to anyone that I wear _make-up_ ” – there’s a whole world of contempt for the idea that he might wear make-up in that statement – “I will… I’ll… I dunno what I’ll do but you – you just watch your back, okay?  ‘S all I’m sayin’.”

“Well, tell me about the precinct and some cases, then.  What’s this new Captain like now she’s been around a while?  What else is going on?  Karpowski still in love?”

Conversation turns to the precinct and shop-talk.  But somehow neither Esposito or Ryan manage to mention that Castle’s been banned.  It doesn’t seem appropriate.  No doubt he’ll tell Beckett, in due course.  No point in them borrowing trouble, when she clearly doesn’t know.

By close to half-past nine, beer, fries and precinct gossip, plus discussion of the current cases, has re-established the normal slick, sardonic banter and cop-speak between Kate and her team.  She thinks it’s a good time to ask Esposito to sneak her into the firing range.

Castle arrives at the booth just in time to hear Kate say, in a tone of superficial confidence overlaying, he thinks, some nervousness, “So, Espo.  Tomorrow, c’n you get me into the range and find me a service piece?  I need some shooting practice before evaluation.”    She turns to say _hey_ to Castle just in time to miss the appalled glances that Ryan and Esposito exchange.  _This is a bad idea_ is tattooed in luminescent ink across their foreheads.  Castle, thankfully, manages to pull on his poker face as Kate looks up.  He’s equally horrified.

“Beckett, you sure that’s whatcha want?”

“Yeah.  Gotta get back to the job.  Can’t do it if I can’t shoot straight.”

Castle slides into his accustomed place next to Kate and stretches out in the same protective way he’d done last time.  This time, Ryan and Esposito don’t bat a single eyelash.  They’re too stunned by Beckett’s suggestion to register anything else.  This has got to be the worst idea she could have hit them with.  Espo can’t believe that someone who spooked at a dropped tray only a week ago will be ready to shoot.  Ryan, who’s actually read up on PTSD, is sure Beckett’s pushing too hard.  And Castle is terrified that she’s going to trigger a whole new set of flashbacks just as bad as the first ones he saw.

The one thing all three men are absolutely certain about is that flatly telling Beckett _No_ won’t help anything.  Ryan and Esposito don’t dare, and Castle, not being a cop, doesn’t feel that he has the right.  And all of them know that any overt opposition will only make Beckett dig her heels in.  Esposito reluctantly acquiesces.

“Okay, Beckett.  I’ll fix it.  Let’s set a time.” As Kate turns away, Esposito stares meaningfully at Castle, who readily translates that to mean _you’d better be around, bro._   He mouths _in the morning_ over the top of Kate’s head.  “I c’n only get you in before lunch.  When’s good?”

Kate thinks.  Dr Burke at nine, finish at ten… “Half past ten.  I’ll meet you at the range.”  Castle nods unobtrusively and unnoticed at Esposito.  “Don’t suppose you can get me my own gun, can you?”  It’s a little wistful, a little shaky.  Castle would never have thought that Kate would miss a particular gun.  Then again, that’s because he’d never have thought that she’d be without it.

Ryan’s still looking very unhappy at the idea.  Unfortunately, he isn’t hiding it at all, and even more unfortunately, Kate notices.  She’s still a good detective, even when she’s benched.

“Something up, Ryan?”

Ryan gathers up his nerve, sensing disaster in the immediate future whether he answers willingly or not.

“You sure you shouldn’t leave this a coupla days, Beckett?  You’ve only been around two weeks.”  He doesn’t say anything about the four weeks she’d been in the city before evaluation. 

“Nah, it’ll be fine.  I’m good.”

Ryan opens his mouth again, clearly not convinced. 

“I’m _good_ , Ryan.  Stop trying to mother-hen me.  Save it for Jenny.”  There’s a snap to the last sentence that firmly discourages further comments.  But when Kate excuses herself for a few moments there’s just time for the three men to agree that this is really, _really_ , not a good plan.  It’s just that none of them has a practical way of stopping it.  And maybe it’ll be okay, Castle thinks optimistically.  After all, Kate hasn’t had a full-on flashback for a few days now, and she’s generally much less tense.

Kate firmly changes the subject and nobody is prepared to risk her wrath by changing it back again.

After Kate leaves, though, Ryan’s still deeply and vocally unhappy with the plan. 

“Why’d you agree, Espo?  You could’ve put it off a day or two.”

“Like you can stop Beckett doin’ what she thinks she has to,” Espo says sarcastically.  Seized with the same idea, both cops glare at Castle.  “Why didn’t _you_ say something?”

“Last time I tried that, you remember, it… didn’t go so well.”  He remembers very vividly being thrown out and told _you and I are_ _done_.  And it hadn’t solved a single thing, because Kate had gone straight ahead and done it anyway.  “And this is cop business, getting back to the precinct.  There’s no chance she’ll listen to me.”

Worried glances are exchanged. 

“Can’t you just lie,” says Ryan despairingly.  “Tell her you couldn’t find a piece, or something?”

“Then she’ll just do it anyway another time and none of us will be there if” – Esposito says _if_ , but they all hear _when_ – “it all goes wrong.  You think anyone else is going to get her out of there without the whole precinct knowing if it does go to hell?  Castle!”  Castle jumps at the sharp tone.  “You’d better be watching your phone.”  No-one says _it’s you who’s gonna be picking up the pieces when it all goes wrong_.  But everyone hears it, all the same.  The remains of the beer is downed in fretful quiet.

* * *

 

“What shall we discuss today, Kate?  I had previously asked you to consider why you find it so hard to accept help, but we have not discussed your thoughts on that matter.  Perhaps we could start there?”

Kate doesn’t want to start there.  She doesn’t want to go there at all.  She wants Dr Burke to tell her that she shouldn’t give her letters to Castle, but he isn’t mentioning her letters, and she doesn’t want to ask because she doesn’t want to hear the alternative answer.  But Dr Burke seems to know what he’s doing.  She lays out the conclusions she’s reached.

“Mmm.  You have talked about emotional support, relating to the current situation, and professional support: essentially teamwork.  Have you also considered your need for, and reaction to, support being offered outwith these situations?”

“I don’t understand.”  But she thinks she might.  She just doesn’t want to.

“More plainly, Kate, what forms of support were you offered to cope with the circumstances surrounding the death of your mother, either at the time or subsequently?  How did you react to these offers?”  As she’d suspected.

“I didn’t want external support.  I coped, at the time.  Then when I became a cop I couldn’t find her killer.  I still can’t, but that’s why someone shot me.  So I’m not looking right now.  I don’t need shot again.  There haven’t been any offers – oh.”  She stops.  Dr Burke is immediately forcibly reminded of exactly how Mr Castle had stopped when required to consider the same situation.  It appears that the nexus between them relates to Detective Beckett’s mother, and her murder.  He deduces that Mr Castle had attempted to assist Detective Beckett with that investigation.  He further deduces that Detective Beckett had rebuffed Mr Castle’s efforts, almost certainly with considerable emphasis.  Mmm.  Yet more conflict.

Dr Burke waits to see whether Detective Beckett will expand on her statement.

“There haven’t been any offers of help,” she says slowly.  “But Castle decided to try to solve it.  Or “help”.” The quotation marks around _help_ are audible. “That was two years ago.  He didn’t ask me if he could.  I’d told him not to meddle.  He did, anyway. He never leaves anything alone.  He never backs off.  He doesn’t know when to stop.  ”  Ah.  Dr Burke understands considerably more about why Mr Castle had refused to comment.  “It wasn’t up to him to decide to get involved.  He was just showing off, trying to prove he could be a detective.  Succeeding at something I couldn’t.” 

“And what did you do when you found out?”

“Walked away.  Told him not to come back.  He was just messing with my life.  It was just another story.”

“But he came back?”  Dr Burke begins to see the genesis of this pattern of dysfunction.

“Yes.”

“Kate, would you explain to me, please, before we continue, how Mr Castle came to follow you at your work?  I do not think you have ever mentioned this?”

“There was a series of murders, based on his books.  We brought him in for questioning.  And then he got the Mayor to force the Captain” – she doesn’t name him, too painful even now – “to let him follow me around for _inspiration._   He’d thought up a whole new character – Nikki Heat – based on that interrogation.  I didn’t want him following me.  He was annoying.”

“Annoying?”

“All he did was flirt, and make stupid suggestions.  I wasn’t interested in a dilettante playboy.”

Ah.  Dr Burke would suggest considering the concept of _playing hard to get_ , except that it is plain that Detective Beckett was not playing.  Or at least, she believes she was not playing.  Subconsciously, Dr Burke thinks, may have been a very different matter.  If she had been, this would be easier, though much less interesting.

“But then he started to be useful.  Sometimes.  So we managed to work together.  Mostly.”

Mmmm.  Mr Castle forced his way into Detective Beckett’s working life, undoubtedly based on immediate, if superficial, attraction.  It appears to Dr Burke that, as his feelings for Detective Beckett have become considerably more serious, Mr Castle has been atoning for that action ever since, by allowing Detective Beckett to act precisely as she wished in relation to him without feeling able to express an opposing view.  In short, Mr Castle has been acting out of fear that Detective Beckett would find a reason, or a method, to remove him, and in doing so conflict avoidance had become the pattern of behaviour that Dr Burke has already discussed with Mr Castle. 

It is likely to be true that Detective Beckett would have taken any reasonable opportunity to remove Mr Castle early in their acquaintance, although Dr Burke suspects that Detective Beckett was also attracted, even then.  It is extremely unlikely that she would have done so in the relatively recent past.  Given what Detective Beckett had told Dr Burke about their extended argument some days ago, it appears that Mr Castle has now decided that either Detective Beckett will not choose to remove him from her life should he disagree with her or, that if she does try to withdraw from him for a time, he will not permit that state of affairs to continue without some resolution.  Progress is clearly being made, whichever of those possibilities is being pursued.

“Kate, you have said that Mr Castle interfered in your mother’s case two years ago.  I want you to consider, without preconceptions, whether you would have the same reaction if he offered the same help now.”

“Yes,” snaps Kate automatically.  “I did.  Right before the summer.  He tried to tell me to stop.  It’s nothing to do with him.  He can’t tell me what to do about my mother’s case.” 

Dr Burke does not say anything for a moment.  That was not a reaction he had anticipated.  Clearly Detective Beckett has not dealt with the combined psychological impact of both her mother’s death and her lack of any support at that time.  It appears that Detective Beckett is not presently able to consider accepting any help relating to that trauma.  He sees why this event is a source of such conflict between his patients.  One wishes to deal with it completely alone, and one wishes to help.  Both of them are angry with the other when these irreconcilable positions come into conflict.  He will have to consider the appropriate exercises to resolve this, on both their parts.  However, Dr Burke is clear that the correct initial exercise to set, for both of them, will involve detailed consideration of the difference between _help_ and _control_.  That is likely to take them each time. 

“Kate, before our next session I would like you to consider two areas: one, why Mr Castle would interfere in a matter as important to you as your mother’s case if he was, as you put it, a dilettante playboy; and two, the difference between offers of help and attempts to control behaviour.”  He passes back an envelope.  “Here are your letters.  I have kept copies so that I may consider them with care.  We will discuss them at a future session, if you so wish.”  Dr Burke will certainly discuss these letters with Detective Beckett.  They had been fascinating. 

Kate takes her envelope and leaves.  She’ll have to hurry getting home to drop that off – there is no way she’s taking it with her – and get to the range.


	36. Still drowning

Kate meets Esposito, as arranged,  at the shooting range, getting there just in time.  She’s tense before they’ve even gone in, and Esposito can’t help but notice it.

“Yo, Beckett.  You sure you wanna do this today?”

“Yeah.  Need to get back to normal.  I need the practice.  I don’t wanna come back, pass eval and then not requalify on the range.  Can’t be a proper cop if I don’t have my gun.”

Espo is entirely convinced that this is not in any way a good plan.  But Beckett’s still insisting, and even if she’s not in the precinct, she’s senior to him and anyway he’s never been able to stop her doing what she feels she oughta.  Besides which, if this works, that’s gotta be a good thing.  Right?  Surely she’s not going to do this if she doesn’t feel ready.  Right?

“Okay, Beckett, I ain’t lending you my piece ‘cause it’s different to yours, an’ I’ve tweaked mine a bit, but I got one as close as I could to what you got.”  He hands it over, and doesn’t look at the slight tremor of Beckett’s fingers as they close over the grip.  Still, she hasn’t forgotten how to take it safely and she’s holding it right.  But when he looks at Beckett’s face he wishes he hadn’t.  He’s very sure this is about to go wrong.  He’s equally sure that trying to dissuade Beckett will not go well.  _Oh shit_ , Esposito thinks, _we should have talked her outta this_.  Ryan, all of them, had been right.  Hell.

Esposito is not mistaken.  He just hasn’t anticipated how very badly wrong it could go.

Kate puts on the ear defenders, moves into a booth, manages to load the gun without dropping anything, though her hands are shaking and there’s a void in her stomach.  She raises and sights, through sheer force of will holding the gun steady, pulls the trigger back – and loses it when she fires, the report and flash taking her straight back to a bright harsh light above her and Castle screaming.  By the time, only seconds later, that Espo’s reached the booth she’s curled in a semi-foetal sitting position, head on her knees, arms round her legs and shivering, unaware of anything.  He tries to talk to her, but nothing he says registers.  He has no idea what to do next.  The incident in the bar had been nothing like this, and Castle had handled that.

Espo leaves Kate hunched on the floor of the booth, and calls Castle from outside the room, where she can’t hear him.  “Yo, Castle.  Get your ass down here, stat.  Beckett’s cut out.  I can’t get through to her.” 

Castle’s on his way in instants.  At least he and Espo had quietly agreed (without Kate really realising, even though she’d been part of the whole conversation) that she’d be at the range at a time when Castle wasn’t otherwise occupied.  And, although he hadn’t told Espo this, he’s less than two minutes’ walk away.  He’d been pretty sure this was an appalling idea too, but he hadn’t wanted to interfere if Kate thought she was ready to try, hadn’t wanted to impede any step she might take to normality.  But it’s backfired (he winces at the word: he’d never realised till the summer how many words, how much imagery, related to shooting) spectacularly, and he can only hope that it hasn’t triggered her inability to look at him all over again.

That thought in mind, he doesn’t waste time exchanging words with Esposito, who anyway doesn’t seem inclined to waste time exchanging them with him, but follows directions to the booth and kneels down behind Kate, where he’s certain that there is no risk of her _seeing_ him.  Esposito is tactfully out of view but in earshot.  Castle wraps Kate closely into his arms and stays still, protection and comfort his only aim.  It’s worse, almost, than the very first time he’d seen this, out on the sidewalk, because she’d been so much better.  _Why does she have to push so hard_ , he thinks, almost angrily.  _Why can’t she just take it slow?_ He realises that he’s suddenly holding her too tightly, but he has to make a conscious effort to loosen his grip slightly.

Kate is drowning in the vivid, precision horror of a full flashback with the sensation of familiar arms around her, familiar scent in her nostrils.  But it’s part of the memory: large hands pressing down on the bullet wound; she needs air, room; and suddenly she’s struggling and trying to make some space about her and panicking, locked into the vision.

Castle feels Kate start to struggle, push against him, frantically whispered words; a long string of _let go let go let go don’t push it hurts so much_ and drops his arms completely, not sure what’s happening, but very sure that preventing her having the freedom to move will only make it worse.  It works: she stops fighting, still hunched, not accepting his protection.  He waits, still unsure what to do, not wanting to pull her in if she needs space, desperate to provide the help she needs.  This isn’t like the momentary shock in the bar: it’s far deeper, and his simple, instinctive reactions then are not, it seems, what’s needed now.  The moment stretches out, and all he can do is wait and be silent.  He can hear her struggling to regulate her quick harsh shallow breathing, white and shuddering and voiceless.  It’s nothing like the review she habitually performs, which he’s almost used to.  This is right back to the moments in her apartment, when she didn’t even know he was there.  He’s written the word _catatonic_ before.  He’d never really understood its meaning as he does now.  More minutes, and still he waits, and still she isn’t surfacing, and he doesn’t know what to do, except stay here.  Not let her be alone.

Eventually - although it’s probably only a few minutes, it feels like forever - her breathing starts to deepen, slow, the awful catching rasp diminishing.  Castle hears the change, slides his arms gently back around her, and when she doesn’t struggle, or push him away, moves so that she’s tucked against his chest and wholly enclosed.  When she’s awoken, he thinks distractedly, he’ll probably be angry that she tried this, but he can’t let himself be angry now.  Another moment later, she moves for the first time, lifts her head slightly off her knees, half turns and slumps into him, head against his chest, out the flashback, he thinks, but in no way recovered from it.

Esposito peers round the corner of the booth, wordlessly offering help with Beckett if Castle needs it.  He should have stopped this, before she started.  He could have, if he’d only not found her a gun.  Castle gives him a direct look and, once Esposito’s caught it, stares very deliberately at the gun on the floor.  Esposito takes Castle’s meaning without any need for further input and unobtrusively collects it, takes it out of sight to clean and return. 

Once Esposito’s removed the most likely possibility to cause this whole disaster to be rerun, Castle turns his attention back to Kate, still shivering and unresponsive.  “Kate?” he murmurs uncertainly.  “Kate?”  When she doesn’t answer he closes his arms tighter, strokes her hair, her back, terrifyingly delicately, careful to project comfort and protection, nothing else.  He shifts position, slides an arm beneath her knees and slips back so he’s propped against the wall of the booth with her limp in his lap, arms around her: it’s a posture he can maintain for hours, if needs be.

The flashback is fading, not fast enough: she’s still so cold and there’s phantom pain in her chest where the scar sits proud and angry.  She has no reserves to deal with this: she’d thought that she was ready, and finding in the hardest possible way that she is emphatically _not_ ready and she’d called it badly wrong has stripped her strength.  All she knows is that – small sliver of intelligence – Castle’s got her.  Got her back.  She shivers convulsively and stays curled tightly in, seeking warmth to drive away the cold chills of dying all over again.

Some uncountable time later she’s not quite so cold, has stopped shivering.  Still, she stays tucked in Castle’s lap, absorbing warmth and protection, needing recovery time.  She’s content simply to be held, kept safe, given the space she needs to review what just happened, to think through the exercise: she fired at a target, not a sniper firing at her; a period in which the adrenaline overload can dissipate and after which she may be able to stand.  It doesn’t seem possible, yet.  Eventually, she speaks, barely audible, not looking up.

“I thought I could do this.  It was all so much better, I thought this would be okay too.”  She stops, breathes deeply, stays leaning in.  “How can I get back to being a cop if I can’t fire a gun?”  It’s anguished: all the fear that she’ll never be able to be a cop again jagged-edged in her tone.  Castle’s arms tighten round her, support and reassurance in the gesture.

“It just takes time, Kate.”  He doesn’t add the word _sweetheart_. Or _darling_.  Or _love_.  “It’s only been two weeks.  D’you wanna talk about it?”  It’s not the way he’d dreamed about having her sitting in his lap, hands fisted in his shirt, in the grip of strong emotion, before.  Sitting on the floor of the shooting range, and Kate shivering and terrified, hadn’t figured.

She shudders.  “Just… dying.  All over again.”  She forces herself to look up at him, is immeasurably relieved to find that she can.  “Can we go?  Please?  Before anyone comes?”  She slides shakily off his lap to sit on the floor next to him, keeping within his arm, trying to get her feet under her.  After she’s wobbled alarmingly part way, Castle stands and then pulls her up after him, stabilising her, and keeps a hand on her waist, which he can easily remove should they meet anyone.

Once they’re out into daylight, Kate is white and drained.  Castle hasn’t seen that look since her first flashbacks.  It’s horrifyingly reminiscent of her hospital pallor.  He puts his arm back round her and notices her move closer, still, he thinks, looking for some protection.  That, he can give.

“Do you want to go home, Kate?”  She just nods, exhausted.  Castle flags down a taxi and helps her in, slipping in next to her, keeping her close.  If physical contact helps, then that’s what he’ll do.  And she certainly seems to want, not to say needs, it.

* * *

 Castle follows Kate into her apartment, pushes her gently in the direction of the couch and, satisfied that she’s reached it safely, which was not at all a certain outcome, takes himself to her kitchen and puts on the kettle.  Very strong coffee at first appears indicated, but when he notices the accoutrements of hot chocolate, he decides that _soothing_ is perhaps preferable to _stimulating_ , and devotes himself to that.  Looking over at Kate, he suspects that the several hundred calories in a good hot chocolate will also be lunch, since she doesn’t look capable of anything more complex than sleep.

In fact, her eyes are closed when he puts the mug on the table next to her, only peeling open when the cushions flex as he sits down.  He’s still got some time, before his afternoon commitments.

“Thanks, Castle,” she murmurs, half-asleep with the aftermath of serious shock.  Which is the only explanation he can think of for why she slides her shoes off, shifts up into him, snuggles close and drops her eyelids.  Well, he’s never been one to spurn an opportunity, and if what Kate wants is an oversize, live teddy bear – he looks worriedly at his waistline, and considers more frequent visits to the gym – to cuddle into he can certainly be that, for a while.  He settles her more comfortably and enjoys the feeling.  Pretty shortly it’s clear that she’s deeply asleep.  Castle tries a small shake of her shoulder and when that has no effect resigns himself to impending spinal damage by picking her up and carrying her to bed.  It would all have been hugely romantic, if she hadn’t been fast asleep.  Though at least he’ll have _seen_ her bedroom.  Sadly, there will be no opportunity to join her.  Other activities that might be undertaken there will have to wait.  Again.

He manages, somewhat awkwardly, to lift Kate, during which she doesn’t flicker an eyelash, and take her through.  Her room is… unexpected.  It’s pretty, and feminine.  He’s always thought that it would be full of strong colours and straightforward edges.  Instead there’s lace-edged bed linen, in a pretty lilac-flower pattern, matching pillows, toning cushions on her chair.  He remembers, suddenly, the one glimpse he’s ever had of her underwear.  That was feminine too. (though _pretty_ would have to defer to _seriously hot_ in the descriptive stakes)  Hmm.  It’s a surprising aspect of her personality: he thought he’d more or less seen every bit of it, but he’d never seen this one.  Interesting, that she has a softer side.  It’s kept well hidden, day-to-day.  He lays her gently on the bed and, as she’s far too deeply asleep to notice, takes the chance to kiss her softly, then quietly departs the room and, shortly, the apartment, leaving a brief explanatory note behind.

As Castle leaves, he realises that he had the perfect opportunity to find and read all those letters.  But the sting of revealed self-knowledge, courtesy of Dr Burke’s blunt words, has not much abated, and he… isn’t going to be that man.  He can be better, more honest, just more, than that.  He manages to tap out a quick text to Esposito, telling him that Kate’s at home and okay, (that’s a bit of a stretch, but Espo doesn’t need to know the details from him) goes to his signing by way of a lunch bar, bathed in a virtuous glow, and even manages to be pleasant, if cool, to Gina.  She, of course, is instantly suspicious, but Castle’s bland publicity-friendly face and a lack of appetite on Gina’s part for another row dissuades her from questions. 

* * *

 

Kate wakes much later, surprised, at first, to find herself on (not in?) her bed, still dressed.  It dawns on her that Castle must have put her there.  Strangely, the first following thought to that is not annoyance over the intrusion, but that he must carry considerably more muscle than is apparent.  She may be slim, and probably still a little underweight, but even so, lifting her as a dead weight – without her waking – is not that easy.  Thinking that, she realises that she’s hungry, and in finding lunch discovers also Castle’s brief note, telling her that due to the PR schedule he’ll see her tomorrow at walk time.  Leaving aside that this makes her – or possibly him – sound like a pet Labrador, that seems fine to her.  She’ll text.  Though she should _also_ text now, just to tell him she’s okay again.  And then she’d better talk to Espo.  Texting Castle is simple, and readily achieved.  Talking to Esposito is a little more difficult.  But she owes him something.  She dials.

“Espo?  Beckett.”

“Beckett, you okay?”  It’s not quite what she expected.  She’d expected a smart remark about sleeping at the range, but Espo sounds unusually concerned.

“Yeah, I’m okay now.  Just wanted to say.  I didn’t expect that to happen.  I thought it would be okay.” She pauses, uncomfortably.  Cops don’t talk about things. But she needs to tell him just a bit more.  “It was a flashback to when I was shot.  I’m sorry you had to deal.”  Esposito clears his throat uncomfortably. 

“Beckett, maybe” – he changes his mind halfway into that statement – “lemme know before you try again.  I’ll come with you, ‘n’ though I won’t be able to stick around I’ll see you after.”  And leaves it at that.

“Okay.”  She can give him that. 

Kate decides to change the subject, rapidly.  “When do you want to go for a beer again?”  Esposito considers.  Case work comes first, much as they want the team together again, and there’s been a rash of killings lately.

“Lotta corpses, this week.  We’ll call you, soon as we can – after all, ‘s not as if you’re out every night, is it?”  Well, no. 

“Okay.  See ya.”

* * *

 

Castle is relieved by the text, but although he’d like to check on Kate – and see if snuggling in is maintained – he doesn’t think that dropping by later is really the best plan – not that seeing Kate isn’t always a good plan, but he’ll finish up late, and she probably needs to sleep.  And, he remembers, he’s seeing Dr Burke tomorrow, and he hasn’t finished his homework.  Honestly, it’s like being back in high school.  Only this time he can’t use all the excuses he had then. ( _I had to be backstage, I had a walk-on part, we were dodging the repo men_ )

While he’s moving round the room, keeping the social, meaningless chat flowing – it takes no effort, he could have, and probably has, done it in his sleep – his mind is worrying at the final piece of homework: how do his actions appear to Kate, and why won’t she accept his help?  The first part, he remembers, he might have thought about.  Something he wrote, in one of the earliest letters?  If he’s going to take them to Dr Burke (he winces, but maybe Dr Burke will tell him he doesn’t have to hand them over, they wouldn’t help) then he should get them out.

When Castle eventually reaches his loft he evades any possibility of meeting his mother, who’s sore at him, Alexis, who’s sore at Kate and probably him, and slides into his study rather furtively.  He pulls out the letters, puts them neatly in date order – in a way it’s a story, after all, and his writer’s pride won’t let him tell a poor story – and scans down the very first one, remembering his terror and loss.  Ah.   There it is.  _I re-opened all of this; set the chain of events in motion._ In the beginning, when it had been a story, a game, a competition.  He’d done it to prove he was worthy, and maybe that he was just as good, or better, than she.  And Kate had known it, detective that she was, and is.  No wonder she hadn’t accepted help, then.  But why not now?  Or, since these last two weeks she has, more or less, at least with the PTSD, rows notwithstanding, why not up till now?

He can’t think why.  So instead he puts all the letters in an envelope, ready for the morning, and Dr Burke.


	37. And I'm not so self-assured

Dr Burke had arrived at his office earlier than normal.  He wishes to review both Detective Beckett’s letters and the approach he should adopt with Mr Castle, who, he recalls, has an appointment this morning.  He wonders which aspects of this relationship he should prepare for.  Mr Castle’s exercises had centred around his letters; his inability to reveal his reactions to Detective Beckett’s behaviour, and Detective Beckett’s reaction to Mr Castle’s offers of help.  Were Dr Burke only convinced that Mr Castle’s session would cover these areas, he might be content.  Instead, Dr Burke is certain, from his previous sessions, that there will inevitably be a new, unexpected, complex revelation which will point to another area which his patients need to resolve before they have any possibility of  reaching a stable relationship.  On the other hand, he would be extremely interested to hear Mr Castle’s views on the conflict to which Detective Beckett had referred.  Perhaps that is where to start: with Mr Castle’s actions.  Dr Burke expects that this topic will elicit the whole story.  He does, however, ponder briefly his ability to preserve his professional expression whilst his patient reveals the next scene in this comedy of errors, and the possible benefits of a course of self-hypnosis in that regard.

Detective Beckett’s letters, however, are deferred to an urgent, unconnected consultation, and by the time that is complete there is no time to re-read them before his schedule begins.

Mr Castle has arrived, Dr Burke observes, clutching a large white envelope.  He is immediately quite sure of the contents.  Mr Castle, it would appear, intends to present him with his letters and, just as Detective Beckett, request him to read them before any decisions on sharing them are taken.  Mmm.  In certain ways, his patients are surprisingly similar.  It should be exceedingly interesting to read Mr Castle’s views on the summer.  It will be even more interesting to have seen both viewpoints.  Another chapter for his putative textbook: the importance of considering opposing points of view in separating fact from opinion while treating dysfunctional relationships.  It is clear to Dr Burke that he is no longer treating Detective Beckett’s PTSD, nor Mr Castle’s reaction to the shooting, but providing relationship counselling.  It makes a pleasant change from his more frequent areas of practice.

Castle hands Dr Burke his envelope, not without considerable trepidation, and blurts out in one long, breathless sentence, “Here’s my letters - I want you to read them before anything else -  well, I don’t want you to read them but I think you should.”

“Thank you.  I shall consider them in due course.”  Oh.  Castle had rather hoped to avoid discussion by handing them over and simply sitting watching Dr Burke read them.  Or even better, letting Dr Burke read them in the session without Castle being there at all.  It doesn’t seem like he’s going to be given relief.

“Rick, last week we discussed altering your reactions to Detective Beckett’s pattern of behaviour.”  Dr Burke carefully does not use the word _avoidance_.  He needs to continue to be extremely careful not to reveal any element of one patient’s treatment to the other.  It is, however, extremely difficult not to succumb to the temptation simply to tell each of them the exact feelings of the other.  Especially since reading Detective Beckett’s letters.  The depth of her self-deception in relation to Mr Castle’s feelings is quite astonishing.  And it is quite clear that Mr Castle has no conception of the depth of her feelings for him.  If he had, he would not need to be here.  Almost certainly, neither would Detective Beckett.

“Have you had the opportunity to consider that?”

Castle grins widely.  “I did better than that,” he smiles.  “I did it.”  He has an expression of considerable self-satisfaction.  “And it worked.”  Ah.  There is some surprise under Mr Castle’s satisfaction.  Mr Castle had obviously taken a risk, and it had, in the vernacular, paid off. 

“What happened, Rick?”

“I was writing and I missed Kate’s text so I didn’t go for a walk with her because there wasn’t time.  I was nearly late for my signing, and then my publisher got mad with me.  So I got mad back, and I’d texted Kate and she didn’t text back and that didn’t help.  So I went round, like I’d said I would.”

Mr Castle’s version is nearly as bare of detail as Detective Beckett’s.  However, Mr Castle likes to converse.  Detective Beckett, on the other hand, does not.  “Rick, why were you angry at your publisher?”

“She treated me like a child.”  Dr Burke is not surprised by this.  As he had previously noted, Mr Castle can behave with considerable immaturity.  “I never duck out of the PR schedule, even when I really don’t want to be there.  And I was writing.  She spends the whole time complaining I don’t write and then she complained because I was.  And then she told me to stop _mooning over my misplaced muse_.” 

Ah.  Dr Burke can see that such a comment, which had clearly stung Mr Castle, might well have had unfortunate consequences, when he is taking every step reasonably practicable in order, Mr Castle hopes, to take possession of Detective Beckett’s affections.  If only Mr Castle knew that he already has them.  Dr Burke does not let a single hint of that thought intrude upon his expression.

“That cannot have helped your mood?”

“No.”  Castle bites that off like Gina’s still there in front of him.  Spilling it all out to Dr Burke, though, who is a very sympathetic listener and never disapproves of him, unlike nearly everyone else, is definitely helping.  “So I went to see Kate after the evening event and she didn’t even expect me so I was even more annoyed.  I’d told her I was sorry but I was writing and that I’d be over later.  But when I saw her it all just came out wrong and she started backing off like she always does and never told me why.  And then she did that _I-don’t-care-please-yourself_ line and I lost my temper.” 

Mr Castle sounds sorry that he lost control.  Dr Burke, on the contrary, thinks that this is an indicator of substantial progress.

“Rick, it is not necessarily a bad outcome if you should lose your temper occasionally, as long as you understand why you have done so and, if you are in the wrong, apologise.  There is no need for you always to submerge your feelings in the face of a conflict.”

“But I didn’t.  That’s what I’m trying to tell you.  So Kate invited me to come the next day, though I didn’t expect it, and then I tried to ask her why she’d pulled back and she avoided the question and I lost it again and told her that…”

“That?”

“That it’s only all about Nikki in her screwed up head.  Not mine.”  Dr Burke only just manages to preserve a neutral expression.  That was a completely unexpected statement.  Mr Castle certainly seems to have taken the principle of speaking the truth and not concealing his emotions to heart.  With considerable difficulty in preserving an even tone of voice, he asks another question.

“What was Detective Beckett’s response to that?”

“She yelled at me.  She said I’d hang around for six months to finish the book and then leave.”

Yes.  Dr Burke can imagine precisely how this scene took place.  Detective Beckett’s insecurity, so apparent from her letters, had flooded to the surface.  This version sheds considerable light on Detective Beckett’s thinking and actions; none of which had been particularly apparent from her session. 

“And then what, Rick?”

“I… I told her she didn’t get to run away from me rather than talk about it.  But then I had to go, so I told her I’d be round later because it wasn’t done.”

“Let us stop there for a moment.  Please consider your interaction with Detective Beckett with hindsight.  From your current knowledge, why do you think that Detective Beckett reacted as she did?”

That’s easy.  “She’s got this hang-up that all I want is Nikki Heat.  And she won’t listen when I tell her otherwise.”  But Dr Burke is not satisfied with that.

“Why might she think that?  Surely you have shown her, over the period of your acquaintance, that there is more to your feelings than that?”

Castle squirms a little uncomfortably.

“Rick, how did you and Detective Beckett meet, and how did that lead to you being allowed to follow her at work?”

“She arrested me.”  Dr Burke allows himself to look astonished.  “Well, not quite.  I was at a book party and I was bored and I’d just killed off my main character and couldn’t think of a new one – writer’s block – and this woman’s voice said “Mr Castle?”  so I thought it was another fan and turned round ready to sign her…” – he coughs and stops the sentence right there -  “and then she hauled me in for questioning because someone was murdering people just like in my books.”  Castle loses himself in the memory and forgets that he’s talking to Dr Burke at all.  “She was just so _hot_ and so focused and she was pretending to be completely not interested in me at all” – Dr Burke observes a note of disbelief – “but she was lying, because nobody who knew that much about my books would be completely indifferent, so I asked her on a date but she turned me down flat.  And she was just perfect and my new character just arrived full-blown in my head.  I went home and I wrote and wrote and wrote.  It was all there, but I needed to see her again and see how she worked and how the NYPD works.”  Dr Burke is convinced that Mr Castle has missed out a critical sentence in that passage.  He has not mentioned his own response to being refused.  Dr Burke thinks that refusal may have been a unique reaction.  “So I called Bob.”

“Bob?”

“The Mayor.  He could get me into the Twelfth.  Good PR for him, and for the NYPD.  And he did.”

“How did Detective Beckett react?”

“She was furious.  She’d have shot me there and then, if she could.  But she couldn’t do anything about it.”  Mr Castle still sounds rather proud of his ingenuity.

“Let us consider this from Detective Beckett’s viewpoint.  You were a suspect in her case.  Then you asked her to go on a date.  She rejected your invitation.  Following that, you used your connections to ensure that you would be in her company as often as possible, telling her that it was, in summary, to enable you to write your next book.  Was that the real reason, Rick?”  Castle thinks, not for the first time, that Dr Burke is not only far too clever but far too fond of asking very nasty questions.  He squirms even more uncomfortably.

“Er… well… no.”  Dr Burke clearly expects him to continue.  “I wanted her.”  He stops, remembering his utter disbelief and frustration that she wouldn’t respond.  She’d been the first woman in years – ever since he’d become rich and famous – to turn him down.  “But I needed to know about Nikki too.”

Dr Burke considers for a time.  Mr Castle had started off on a disingenuous basis with Detective Beckett, hoping to achieve through subterfuge that which he could not achieve directly.  Mentally, Dr Burke shakes his head.  This would appear to be today’s unexpected complexity.  He tries to construct a coherent picture, based on what he has been told, what he has read in Detective Beckett’s letters, and his own considerable ability in psychiatry.  After only a few seconds, he realises that he will need several sheets of blank paper, an afternoon free of appointments, and a considerable quantity of cold towels to wrap around his head.  There is no possibility of his being able to disentangle any of these matters quickly.  Much like his patients.  He wonders, idly, whether recommending to both parties that they should take the superficially simple step of simply kissing each other would cut through this Gordian Knot.  However, that would be firstly, unprofessional, and secondly, unproductive.  A lasting relationship will need founded on more than the evident physical attraction between them.  Some honesty should undoubtedly be the first, and most helpful, constituent of that foundation.  Dr Burke returns his full attention to Mr Castle, who appears, from the unhappy expression on his face, to have realised something.

“I see…” he says slowly.  “ _Now_ I see.  I never told her any reason other than Nikki.  I pushed in and she never got a chance to say no, and everyone told her it was about Nikki, and she couldn’t say no because it was orders.  And then Nikki was a success, and till now I never told her there was any different reason.”  Castle thinks that this is quite enough realisation for one session.  Until Dr Burke asks his next, too-clever, too-pointed question.

“You mentioned in our last session that there had been an occasion when you tried to help Detective Beckett and she had refused that help.  Did that occur early in your acquaintance?”

“Yes.”  Castle does not at all want to return to this subject.

“Please describe your reasons for wanting to help Detective Beckett.”  Okay, that’s not quite what he was expecting.  And it means he can skate over some of the less attractive points, like the actual subject matter.

“She was hurting.  You could see it.  So I tried to get her to tell me about it and she wouldn’t, and then I guessed a lot of it, and then she filled in some gaps a bit later.  But she wouldn’t let me in to help her.  I wanted her to stop being hurt.”

“Why?”  Another nasty question.  All his early, unworthy motivations are being dragged out: fat maggots, white and wriggling unpleasantly.

“I thought… I thought if I could fix it she’d come to me.  See that it wasn’t just about the story.”  He doesn’t specify which story: Nikki or Kate.

“So, Rick.  In summary, you informed Detective Beckett that you were following her for the purposes of Nikki Heat, although in truth your reasoning had at least as much to do with attraction,” – ow, ow – “and, without explaining to Detective Beckett any other reasoning, decided to try and help her without her consent, presumably in a matter that carried considerable significance to her, in the hope that this would alter her behaviour and convince her to return your feelings.  Is that an accurate statement?”  Ow, ow, ow. 

“You have behaved in a manner consistent with your original deception ever since you met Detective Beckett.” – ow, _ow:_ that is particularly nasty.  Is time up yet?  Or at least, can’t Castle go back to the success of following Dr Burke’s advice, rather than being skewered on his previous misdeeds?  He doesn’t like Dr Burke’s mirroring technique: it shows him far too many of his faults.  It’s not fair, when he’s been doing it right for the last couple of days.  Trying, anyway.

“Yes.” He sounds shamefaced.  But Dr Burke isn’t obviously disapproving of his actions.  Yet.

 “Did it work?”

“No.”

“Please consider what, if anything, has altered the way in which Detective Beckett acts towards you now from the way in which she acted then.” 

Castle thinks.   It confuses his brain.  Dr Burke always makes him _think_.  It’s not fair.  He shouldn’t have to think.  It would all be much simpler if he could just stop all this _thinking_ and go kiss Kate.  And… other things.  Carrying her into her bedroom had really not done anything to help him stick to his strategy of _friends_.

He starts slowly, testing it out in his head before he opens his mouth.

“I kept showing up.  And gradually she got used to me.  I learned what she liked.  Coffee.”

“Coffee?”  Dr Burke remembers that Detective Beckett had been unwontedly pleased that Mr Castle was bringing coffee to their next meeting.

“I found out how she liked it and then I brought her it.  I always got her coffee, and she used to smile at me no matter how bad the case was or how cross she was with me.”  Castle smiles himself.  “She mainlines caffeine, you know.  It must have been hell not being allowed it.”  Another part of Detective Beckett’s letters becomes clear to Dr Burke.  This is really extraordinarily helpful.  “And I helped solve cases.  That’s what matters to her: being the best cop she can.  I was useful.  I saved her life, too.  She saved mine.”

Mmmm.  That is also very interesting.  Unfortunately, time is up.

“Rick, I think we have made considerable progress today.”  Dr Burke thinks that Mr Castle needs some praise and encouragement, rather like a small boy completing a difficult task.  “Before our next session, I will consider your letters.  I would like you to continue to consider why you have felt able to alter your behaviour, and why that has succeeded.”

Dr Burke politely ushers Mr Castle out and stops with his receptionist so that she may arrange for the following afternoon to be kept entirely clear of appointments.  He intends to study both sets of letters in detail.  Matters may be clearer after that, although he is content that both patients are progressing, slowly.  He expects to be able to guide them, gently, towards a satisfactory resolution, although he does not, now, expect it to be simple.


	38. Something in the way she moves

Castle meets Kate, with coffee firmly in hand for both of them, at Columbus, half his mind still fretting over his therapy session.  Fretting is immediately banished, however, some few yards into their walk, when Kate quite deliberately steps in closer and, in some mysterious unspoken but perfectly understandable communication, manages to make it utterly clear that she expects an arm to place itself around her.  Astonishment does not in any way prevent Castle from replying in a similarly unspoken fashion, though once he’s tucked her in all he can think is _what the hell?_ , which doesn’t seem like a helpful comment to articulate.

He hadn’t thought that yesterday was deliberate.  He still doesn’t, given the appalling events: he thinks it was simply instinctive, Kate searching for comfort and safety in the face of substantial shock.  But this was quite, quite deliberate.  And Kate never does anything without planning it first, thinking through all the implications, and having an end-game.  Well, except running off all summer.  Although even then she’d thought it through, just from a completely wrong start point.  Anyway, she’s not going to get to do that again.  She’s not going to get to run away from him again.  He tightens his arm, just a little, and abruptly plays back that thought.  That was more than a little primitive.  Possessive.  Oops.  _Take care, Rick.  It’s only been a couple of weeks._   Friends is working.  It is.  Here’s Kate encouraging him to hold her close.  He has to let her set the pace.  Really.  Because there’s still so much they haven’t dealt with and so many conflicts and they have to make this work, because he can’t face it all going hopelessly wrong again, and if he kisses her now like he wants to they won’t be going for a _walk_ , and it’s just too soon.  But he really, really wishes that she wasn’t making happy little humming noises as she drinks her coffee and walks in the curve of his arm, because those noises are doing _nothing_ for his self-control at all.

He tries just to focus on the moment, the progress that this implies, but all the time there’s a drumbeat of _she’s mine_ in the back of his head.  He hadn’t felt like this even before the summer.  Then again, she’d never needed, wanted, asked for or accepted comfort, still less protection, before the summer either.  It’s sobering, to realise that for all his metrosexual, in-touch-with-his-feminine-side, absolutely not reactionary ways, (small chance of anything else, surrounded by strong women as he is) he’s reverted straight back to some very old-fashioned instincts as soon as his Kate needs protection.  Needs him.  Um.  More complications.  He doesn’t see that going well, if he can’t keep it to an acceptable – which means agreed, which means explaining, which neither of them are ready for – level.  Luckily, Kate hasn’t noticed his silence, hasn’t objected to the tighter grip, and in fact looks lost in thought herself.

Kate is considering two things: one of which is simple, but not something she cares to articulate, and one which is more complicated, and definitely will need articulated, just as soon as she finds a coherent way to express it.  Simple, is that _encouragement_ was a very good idea.  She feels safe, wrapped against someone large and warm and strong.  It’s not a sensation she’s been used to.  The thought filters into her mind on the caffeine rush that this is a way of accepting help, and that she isn’t pushing it away.  It’s not someone trying to tell her what to do, to control her.  It’s stemmed from a choice she’s made.  She realises, strolling through the late-September sunshine, that she can choose to accept help, or not.  Not every offer of help is a demand to behave, to be, a particular way.  Hard on the heels of that thought, comes the realisation that she could have chosen differently, in the hospital.  She _could_ have chosen to tell people how she really felt, rather than thinking that she had to behave a particular, expected, way and then be suffocated by it till she fled.  She could have believed that people cared about her, whether she needed help or not.  That they wouldn’t translate _needing help_ as _weakness._   Oh.  Ohhh shit.  What a mess.  She parks that disentanglement for later, when she’s alone.  Let’s try the second thought.

She needs to get past the fear of guns.  Very, very soon.  It’s two weeks till she’s re-evaluated, and she’s got to be able to raise and fire on that day.  Seeing the boys has made her remember how much her job means to her, and she’s starting to want to be back at it.  Broaching the subject, though, after the fiasco of yesterday, is rather more complicated.  A blunt statement of _I need to go back to the range_ is not quite what’s required, though it would have the advantage of honesty.

“Castle?”

“Huh?”  He sounds as if he’s been woken out his own thoughts.

“Castle, I’ve got two weeks till I go back to the precinct for re-evaluation.”

“Yeah?”

“If I’m to get back to the job, I need to be able to shoot.”  There, it’s out.  Castle stops moving very suddenly and perforce Kate stops too.  Surprisingly, the first words out his mouth are not _Are you insane?_

“Can we sit down and talk about this?”

“Okay.”  There’s a convenient bench not far away.  Sitting down, there’s no reason for Kate not to stay tucked in, and she makes sure she does.

Castle’s thinking rapidly.  He doesn’t like the idea at all, after yesterday, but he sees where this has come from.  Um.  She’s right.  She needs to be able to fire, or she can’t go back yet.  Though her new partner – whoever that might be – will be qualified.  He suppresses his unhappiness at that thought.  It’s not the right time to tell Kate that he’s barred.

“How’re you going to do that?”  _After yesterday_ hangs in the air.  Kate shrugs unhappily.

“Don’t know.  All I can think of is the same way as the other flashbacks, try it, if it goes wrong, review.”  She stops, as if something’s crossed her mind.  “I’ll need to go a lot.”  She pauses again, makes a face.  “Would you mind if…”  His heart sinks.  He can see their comfortable, close-cuddled walks, that have really only just begun, stopping, and he won’t see her every morning.  “…if instead of walking” – there it is, he knew it – “you came to the range with me instead?”  What?

“Me?” he squeaks, not recovered from expecting to be left out.

“Yes, you.  And Espo.”   She’s talking faster, now she can see it all planned out.  “Espo to get me in.  You to… help me deal with any problems.”

 _What the hell?_ he thinks again.  Who is this stranger and what has she done with Kate Beckett?  He’s dumbfounded.  And he needs to answer, fast, before she thinks he’s turning her down and it all goes to hell in a handcart yet again.

“Sure.”  There’s very evident relaxation beside him.

“Thanks, Castle.”  She’s hugely relieved.  If he’s there, it’ll all be – if not okay – better.  She has to do this.  She can sense time slipping away from her.  She has to be ready, two weeks from now.

* * *

 

Esposito is not nearly as accommodating as Castle.  He spends the first five minutes of Kate’s phone call trying to talk her out of going to the range again within the week.  When that fails, he tries to put it off at least for two days.  After that, Kate pulls on full Detective Beckett seniority, which has, for the first time ever, no effect at all.   Finally, she simply pleads, until he gives in.  But he makes her promise that she won’t go in without him or Castle in the same room.  Since that’s what Kate was planning, it’s an easy give, and Esposito is mildly mollified by her acceptance of his conditions.  She agrees that after the session in the range she’ll call him, tell him how it went.  She even agrees that if there’s even a hint of a problem she’ll stop, leave, wait.  Though he’s still muttering darkly at the end of the call.  It sounds like _always pushing too hard it’ll all go wrong again_.  It’ll go right.  It has to.

She puts that thought out of her mind, texts Castle the time and, though she knows he knows where, the place.  She can’t afford uncertainty about getting back to the precinct: she just has to do it.  It’s time she was Detective Beckett, kick-ass cop, again.  She’s got this.  She spends some time reviewing the range, the flashback, trying to replace it with reality: she did the shooting; she wasn’t shot.

That dealt with, she makes herself coffee and settles down.  She needs to think through this latest realisation: that she didn’t have to subsume her reactions to all the help others gave her.  She could have told the truth about how she felt.  She could have believed that her friends would understand.  So why didn’t she?  There are all sorts of excuses.  She was in shock, in trauma, had PTSD.  That’s true.  But it’s not the whole story.  Everyone’s deserted her when she needed help, beforetimes.  So she thought if she showed she needed help they would this time, too.  That’s a little closer to the truth: her history, coming up to bite her.  But it’s not everything, is it?

She looks at her behaviour, for the first time, with the same unflinching honesty she’d applied to the truth of Montgomery’s corruption.  It’s painful, but she doesn’t back off.  A toxic mixture of terror that she’d be less in all their eyes, that she’d be less in her own eyes; too proud to tell anyone the truth of how badly she was suffering; too scared to take a risk on Castle’s feelings; all founded on her damaged past. 

She examines her actions, clear-eyed, and doesn’t like them one little bit.  Pain may be a partial excuse, but she thought she was a better person – adult – than that.  Running away is a pretty poor solution to her issues, when she’s supposed to be an adult.  Especially when all she’d done was upset and hurt every single one of her friends.  She remembers Lanie’s reaction, back three weeks ago.  She hadn’t dared enquire into Ryan’s, or Esposito’s, but she’s sure it wouldn’t have been different.  And now, courtesy of Lanie’s information, she knows not only how Castle felt when she’d gone to the book signing, which had been bad enough, but how he’d felt over the summer when she’d run away, which is dreadful.  _I didn’t mean to do it_ is not an acceptable answer, when you’re grown up.  She hadn’t meant to, but still, she had.  And if you’re an adult, you take responsibility for your actions.  She spends her life making other people accept responsibility for their actions:  how can she do less?  The thin, cold light of shame bathes her.

So, first, not how to mend things – that will come later – but where did she go wrong?  Can’t fix it, if she hasn’t worked out what her mistakes actually were.  Truthfully, no comforting evasions, no slick avoidances.  Right.  One: thinking that she couldn’t ask for help.  Two: not recognising her PTSD, even though she’d been warned.  Three: running away.  Four: cutting contact, shutting everyone out.  All of which are, not even very different, aspects of the same thing: doing it alone.

Why’d she try – why’s she still trying – to do it on her own, when she’s got friends who’d have been happy to help?  But that was the problem: _help_ felt like suffocation, and every inch of _help_ reminded her how feeble she was.  Fed her deep-rooted insecurity that she can’t be enough, that she can’t keep hold of the people around her.

 _But you could have said_ , says the small voice of realisation.  Look at it the other way.  If she’d only explained, people would have given her space.  She upset them because she didn’t _talk_.  If she’d talked, she wouldn’t have hurt everyone so much.  She could still have gone ( _run away_ , reminds the annoying small voice) upstate, on her own if that’s what she’d wanted, she just wouldn’t have hurt everyone along the way.  Or at least, hurt them a lot less.  Oh _hell_ , what a mess.  Not only has she screwed up, badly, it’s taken her weeks – months – even to recognise that she has.  And she doesn’t know how to fix it.  Somehow, she needs to acknowledge what she’s done.  She stops there; wanders about her apartment, fiddles and fusses and frets.  It doesn’t help.  She changes and goes for a run, and that doesn’t help either.  Even a hot bath doesn’t clear her head.  She doesn’t see a single good way to fix things and acknowledge her fault, because she still doesn’t properly understand why she did what she did.  Apology without understanding isn’t good enough: she’ll only make all the same mistakes again. 

Her head hurts: stress, shame and misery combined, and she retires to bed on two Advil, confused and disheartened.

* * *

 

It’s not much better when she wakes, later than usual, still heavy-eyed and unhappy, not at all consoled by the knowledge that she’s going to try the range again.  She leaves for the short run that’s all she has time for, but it still doesn’t help.  She’s no further on than she was last night when she returns, showers and changes to meet Esposito and sneak into the range. 

Castle’s already there when Kate arrives, loitering near the entrance with their coffee and sliding an assessing glance across her face.  Fresh from last night’s thinking, Kate suppresses a reflexive instinct to point out ( _snap_ , says the same annoying little voice from yesterday) that she’s fine.  Apart from anything else she may have realised about her inability to ask for help, she’s not actually fine at all.  As a first step, she needs to stop pretending everything’s fine when it isn’t. 

Castle watches Kate’s hand tremble as she takes her coffee from him, and equally suppresses the urge to say something.  _Do you really want to do this_ isn’t going to help.  He can feel her urgency, the need to be normal.  But because they’re right outside the door of the range, where anyone might see, he doesn’t touch her, beyond a quick touch of fingers as he hands over the coffee. 

Which yet again leaves him hopelessly floundering when she doesn’t open the door, turns to him and says, “I’m not fine.”

It’s not a statement he ever expected to hear: _I’m not fine_.  Ever since he’s known her, all three years, all through the weeks of hospital, implied or spoken; she’s never, ever admitted to _not_ being fine.  He doesn’t know how to react.

“I...” she stops, very obviously changing tack.  “I have to do this.”

“You don’t, you know.”  Kate stares at him, stupefied.

“I do.  I have to be able to shoot.”

“But you don’t have to do it here, or now.  You can go somewhere else, another time.  I can get you into the range I use, any time you want.”  He knows it won’t work, she won’t accept the deferral, needs to try this here and now.

“I have to do it now.”  There’s a distinct flavour of _or I won’t be able to do it at all_.  “It won’t get better if I put it off.”  Ah.  Okay then.

“Like getting back on a horse?  How well can you ride, Beckett?”  He waggles his eyebrows.

“I can ride pretty well, Castle.”  He constructs a deliberately provocative, _I’m thinking dirty thoughts_ – he is – expression, raises an eyebrow and is not disappointed by the immediate reaction.

“Horses, Castle.  Horses.”  It’s accompanied by half a glare and a full-on eye-roll, but it achieves the object: she’s pushed the door open and entered without a further thought. 

Esposito’s waiting for her with a service Glock and three clips.  It’s very noticeable to both men that Kate doesn’t reach for it until she’s almost in the booth.  Espo disappears after a few words to Kate that Castle doesn’t hear, before anyone can notice that he’s missing from the bullpen, and Castle finds a convenient point close by, though out of view.  He just hopes it won’t be a rerun of two days ago.  He can stand any amount of Kate in his lap, but he’d prefer her _not_ to be in the midst of serious flashback and panic if she is.  He’s daydreaming happily about the sensation of Kate in his lap when he becomes aware of a remarkable absence of gunfire.


	39. Everybody needs somebody

Kate’s in the booth, looking at the gun in her hand, watching the tremor getting worse with every second.  Even the memory of Esposito’s words a moment ago: _it’s just a tool, Beckett, what matters is how it’s used, I’ll see you after_ doesn’t help.  Finally she puts it down, puts her head round the partitions and summons Castle.

“I can’t do this.  I can’t even hold it steady.”  She demonstrates.  It’s ugly.  She looks like she’s about to cry, though tough-cop Beckett doesn’t do that.  “I’ve got to find a way to do this.”

A memory’s tugging at Castle’s brain.  He’s only been to the range twice, not being generally permitted to shoot here, and having a different place he can go if he needs to practice.  He’s a very good shot, though he doesn’t remind Kate of that, not after the first time when she nearly killed him for pretending to be hopeless and then putting three through the spot when it got him the photos – ah.  _We could always just cuddle, Castle_ , she’d said sarcastically, as she aligned his stance.  Perhaps there’s a solution here.  Still, better discuss it first.

“Kate?”  She doesn’t look up.  “Beckett.”  That’s fetched her.  Stick with it.  This is cop business.  “Beckett, I’ve got an idea.”  It’s the same tone he would have used in the Twelfth for a far-out theory.  Beckett ( _think of her as Beckett, Rick, just Beckett_ ) acquires her patent, disbelieving expression as she waits for the latest impossible idiocy.  It’s nearly covering up her unhappiness.

“You have?”

“Yes.  But don’t kill me till you’ve heard it, okay?”  Just like he used to sound.  She needs to be Beckett, he knows.  So tone and words and phrasing just like he used to use.  She’s gazing at him sceptically. 

“Why don’t I stand behind you and we both hold the gun?”  He waits for her to pick up the gun and just shoot him now for the suggestion.  He’s maintaining the wide, innocent smile he’d have used for that a year ago.  When she doesn’t shoot him, or maim him, or even twist his ear, he’s not relieved, but worried.  Kate’s still got a long way to go to be Beckett, he thinks.  And she’s going to try to do it all in two weeks.

“Okay, Castle.  Let’s try it.”  Oh.  Oh oh oh.  Now he’s going to be standing behind Kate with his arms round her and if he isn’t very careful indeed she’s going to notice just how _friendly_ that thought makes him feel.  He hurriedly recalls the last time he was in here and that has the desired deflationary effect.  Kate moves back into position and picks up the gun, while Castle slides into alignment behind her and brings his hands round the grip, wholly covering hers.

“Okay, Beckett, bring the gun up.”  She obeys, slowly, habit taking over as she moves, barrel stopping as she comes into firing stance.  “You got this.  When you’re ready, fire.”  Her finger tightens on the trigger, bringing it back to the firing point, pauses.  Castle can feel her shake.  “You got this,” he murmurs again, steadying her.

And she fires.

It’s hardly pinpoint marksmanship, she thinks.  But she’s hit the target.  And on that thought she realises what just happened and starts to shudder convulsively with reaction.  Castle’s response is instant, spinning her round and holding her against him, murmuring soothing nothings to her.  When she stops shaking, she looks up.

“Again.  I need to do it again.”

By the time she’s emptied the clip she’s got her eye in.  The last couple of shots are properly placed, albeit she hasn’t raised the gun once without Castle in stance behind her and hands over hers.  That’ll be for tomorrow.  She’s done enough today.  They’ve been in the range an hour and she’s only fired one clip.  She’s spent most of that time shivering and reviewing, and it’s just as well that there was no-one else around because she’s _also_ spent the majority of that time wrapped in Castle’s arms.  Which would do nothing for Detective Beckett’s hard-ass reputation, but which has allowed her to aim and fire.  She’s pretty sure – more like entirely certain - that she couldn’t have done, otherwise.  It’s just as well she didn’t try this yesterday.

“Let’s go, Castle.  I’m done.”  He hears more in that than simply _I’m finished here._   It sounds more like _I’m about to collapse_.  “Same again tomorrow?”  He can see her pushing herself through this, as hard and fast as any other blockage to solving homicides.  It’s just another barrier in her way; just another barrier to break down.

“Maybe not tomorrow?” 

It’s phrased as a suggestion, but still there’s a question, and the beginnings of resistance, on her face.  “Give yourself a day.  Like yesterday.  Come for a walk, do something else.  Give it time to sink in.”

Kate thinks about it.  She wants to push on, beat the flashbacks, make it better right now.  But.  But she feels more drained than she’d expected, not much less tired than the other day.  She’d needed yesterday, to recover from the day before.  Maybe – unexpected thought – maybe he’s right.

“Okay.  Day after.  Same time, same place?”

“Yes.”

But after Castle’s wandered off in the direction of whatever he has to do next, Kate dials Esposito and asks him if he’s got time to join her for lunch.  Just him.  She’s buying.

By the time Espo’s shaken off Ryan and avoided the Captain’s gimlet glare to turn up at the lunch bar, Kate’s been waiting long enough to work out what she wants to say, and strangely, the difficulties in the range have somehow cleared her thinking about all the _other_ matters.  Start with the easy stuff.

“It went better.” Esposito glares at her.  “I shot a clip.  I didn’t lose it like I did the other day.”  Esposito raises very disbelieving eyebrows.  “You were right.  It’s a tool to do the job.”  She’s defensive.  Esposito’s not backing off.

“Could hardly’ve gone worse, Beckett.  Ya scared the crap outta me the first time.  What’re you playing at, tryin’ to do everything at once?”

“I want to be back.  I can’t come back if I can’t shoot.  I’ve got to get past it.  I can’t turn up at evaluation and expect to be let back if I can’t raise and fire when I need to.  I can’t come back till I can do the job properly.  I thought I could manage the range.  Nothing had gone wrong since the bar.  I didn’t expect that to happen.”  It’s hardly a smooth explanation.

Esposito understands that, though he thinks Beckett’s missing a fundamental point.

“Why ya pushing so hard, Beckett?  No-one expects you to kill yourself trying to get back.  You can have all the time you need.  You were stupid to go to the range so soon.  So why ya pushing?”

It’s the perfect feed line.

“I can’t stand being broken, Espo.  I need to fix this.  I can’t get past” – she chokes on the words – “the flashbacks if I don’t push.”  She stops again.  Esposito doesn’t say anything.  His cop senses tell him there’s more to come, just like a suspect confessing.  He waits, quietly.  “In the hospital, I got flashbacks, but I thought it was just something that would go away.  So I left for the cabin, because it would be quiet.”  There’s another pause, and still Esposito doesn’t break silence.  “But mostly I went ‘cause I couldn’t cope with all of you looking at me like I was some broken doll.  I thought...” Her mouth twists.  She doesn’t like this bit.  “I thought... seemed to me… you’d all give up on me if I didn’t get back to being a cop.”  She takes a breath.  “I screwed up.”

Esposito’s staring at her like she’s grown a second head.  “Are you friggin’ _insane_ , Beckett?  We’re a team.  All four of us.  We got your back just like you got ours.  You came in after us when Lockwood had us.  Why’d ya think we’d do less for you?”  Beckett’s not looking at him.  She’s gazing into the table.

“Beckett!”  There’s a snap in Esposito’s voice that brings her eyes up again.  He doesn’t often use that tone to her.  “Everyone needs help sometimes.  ‘S no shame.  We’ve all been there.  So why’d ya think you’re any different?”

 _Because everyone who should have helped me died or left, instead.  Asking for help only makes people leave._   She goes back to staring a hole into the table.

“Beckett, I know where you’re coming from.”  Esposito doesn’t want to lay her past out again.  “But that was then.  Time you woke up to what’s now.  You got a team.  You got us to have your back.”  He stops.  He’s said this next bit once before, and it hadn’t had the success he’d hoped for.  “You got Castle.  He ain’t hanging around for the books.”  His voice drops to an embarrassed mutter.  “We all got you, same as you got all of us.  You just gotta let us.  So ya screwed up in summer.  So?  We’ve all screwed up.  Doesn’t mean the team’s broken.”

Kate’s barely touched food lies on the table between them.  She’s never heard Esposito say so much that doesn’t relate to a case, and each word drives home how badly she’d got it all wrong.  She wants to leave, go home and hide.  But Esposito’s words can’t be unheard, and even if she leaves now they’ll be ringing in her ears.

“Ya don’t need to push ‘cause of us, Beckett.  Team’ll still be there, whenever you’re ready.  Do it right.”  He flicks a glance around, at his watch.   “I gotta get back.  Gates is a real hard-ass about breaks.”  He stands.  “Think about it, Beckett.  Do it right.”

She’s left sitting, staring at her lunch, trying to get back some composure before she stands up.  She’d better reach home before she tries to process what Esposito’s said, because the way she feels right now she’s going to spend half the afternoon as an emotional puddle.

* * *

 

Home is not consoling.  Nor, amazingly, is chocolate, even eaten whilst swallowing the best coffee she can make.  And she’s not going to start drinking at 2pm in the afternoon.  That way lies disaster.  Esposito’s shocked, disbelieving expression when she’d admitted how she’d been thinking is burned on her cortex.  She’s never thought about what her team might feel for her, never, till now, needed to: only ever thought about what she feels for them: unquestioning support for them, unquestionable ability for them to rely on her.  She hasn’t looked for reciprocity.  She’s only ever concentrated on being the best she can be for the sake of the victims and the sake of her team.  And at the end of the day she’s gone home alone, met up with her part-time, part-committed boyfriends or lovers and lived her part-time life.  Everything she is, comes from her job. 

But that’s not what Esposito’s telling her.  Esposito’s telling her that she should, is entitled to, expect support in the same, fully committed, way she gives it.  And that if she needs it, it doesn’t make her less in their eyes.  Even, shamingly, her full-scale fuck-up over the summer has not made her less in their eyes.  All her insecurity and history told her that she didn’t, couldn’t, rely on her team, however much they relied on her, outside the job.  Esposito’s blunt words tell her she’s got them, or they’ve got her, whether she wants them or not, in work or not.  It’s the same as Castle had said, when they were fighting in Central Park.  _Whether you want friends or not you’ve got them._   Coming from the normally inarticulate Esposito, though, it carries more weight.  There are no undertones, from Espo, no subtext or secondary meanings, no… complications.  He lays it straight down the line, and she can rely on his honesty on this just as she relies on it with his cop abilities.

 _A place to stand_.  And, it seems, a team to stand with.  To support each other.

She still doesn’t want to take time about this, wants to be back as soon as she can.  She’s not designed to do nothing, and being made to makes her antsy.  Running, walks and shooting, alongside having to see Dr Burke, is not sufficient.  And being back on the job would stop her having to think about everything else.  Which, she recognises, not without some irritation, is exactly why she shouldn’t be let back into the precinct tomorrow; quite apart from her inability to shoot solo.  She needs to do this thinking, gain the necessary understanding, fix the problems in her psyche.

Which doesn’t solve her other problem, nor the disconnect between what Espo and Lanie have both, separately, said, and what’s going on now.  Her other problem, being Castle.  Or more specifically, that she needs him to keep her moving forward.  Well.  Who’s she trying to kid.  _At least be honest with yourself, Kate._ She needs him.  Full stop. 

She couldn’t even pick up the gun till he was there.  He’s said he’ll be around – bet the Ferrari on it, so he won’t be leaving any time soon – but he’s being friends.  Espo and Lanie both said there was more.  Before the summer.  And now it’s fall, and whatever Espo and Lanie are talking about isn’t there.  Something else is; something less.  Any amount of comfort, reassurance, friendship: but no hint of anything else.  Except how slowly he lets go of her, occasional sharp flex of his arm tightening around her.  But never any follow through.  Before the summer, if she’d provided _encouragement_ she expects the next stop would have been the nearest bed.  Or wall.  And now she’s trying to be _encouraging_ and okay yesterday was the first day she’s tried it but it fell into a black hole.  Or did it?  She revisits her actions.  She… encouraged.  An arm arrived, rapidly.  So Castle is actually paying some considerable attention to the unspoken signals.  But he’s not pushing for anything.

She thinks about where they are.  Or aren’t, more like.  What had she said to Dr Burke, several days ago?  Oh yes.  _I’m not ready to deal with more._   That was then.  And then Castle had said _it’s up to you what you do.  When you’ve made your mind up, let me know._   Well.  Has she made her mind up?  Said mind skitters away from that thought. 

Try another thought.  Dr Burke had set her more homework: _why would Castle interfere_ and _the difference between help and control._ She’s thought about the second one, yesterday.  Sort of.  But it’s easy, really.  Help she can make a choice about.  Control she can’t.  Why does she feel she doesn’t have a choice?  She does.  She made a choice.  Probably – certainly – the wrong one, but she chose not to be helped, over the summer.  And no-one stopped her.  So, no control there.  She thinks further.  Is she still sore about Castle pushing into her mother’s case?   That was two years ago and more, and he hasn’t tried to interfere ever since.  And yet.  Look how she reacted when Dr Burke suggested he might help now: instant anger, instant assumption that it would be a way to _tell her what to do_ – to control her.  Why is she thinking that?  Because she knows perfectly well what he was hoping, then.  He was hoping that it would make her change her mind.  Be attracted.  _You were anyway_ , says a little voice in her head. _You simply weren’t going to be just another conquest._   But.  But he’d worked on it for some time, long after he knew it was crucial to her.  That’s the point Will had broken on: as soon as he found out how important her mother’s case was, too important for her even to think about going to Boston, he’d left anyway.  Castle had kept looking at it, and maybe there was a healthy dose of showing off (she’s sure there was) and an even bigger one of trying to get her into bed, but he’d recognised its importance and tried to find her some answers. 

So.  His intentions were – partly – good.  The way he went about it, not so much.  But why did he get involved in the first place?  It’s hardly where you start, if you’re just up for a brief affair.  Flowers and chocolates, yes.  If you’re as wealthy as Castle, red strapless probably-designer dresses and charity events, yes.  But murder investigations?  Really?  That’s hardly standard get-the-girl romance.  All Kate’s Detective Beckett instincts are suddenly – _finally_ , she thinks, _why has this taken me so long?_ – fully engaged.  Evidence, Kate.  Evidence.   Just like ten days ago.

Castle deliberately chose to get into something really important to her, applying contacts and money that she could never have got access to, to try and find answers.  For her.  The answers would be irrelevant to him.  Oh.  Oh oh oh.  _Because_ it was important to her.  Hell of a way to try to show a change of heart, Castle.  Especially when all your words – and you’re famous for your words – were saying that you’re still a rich playboy out for an affair with your _muse_.  Right then.  If _that’s_ how you were rolling, let’s think about actions, and ignore all the words.  Her mother’s case.  Coffee.  Coonan.  Alleyways.  LA.  _I see you, Castle.  Oh, I see you now._   Oh God.  It had all been there.  Just as she’d almost been there – until a bullet smashed it all away. 

Okay.  Don’t think about the bullet.  It was there.  It might still be there.  There was, at least, response to _encouragement_.  She’ll play this hand for another couple of days at most, she decides, and then if she’s still not sure she might try something a bit more direct.  Step it up a notch.  And if that doesn’t work, well, she’ll know where she stands.  There’s a bite of misery in her chest, at that thought. 

She’s made her mind up.  She’s going to take another step forward.  Take a chance.


	40. A very, very mad world

Dr Burke has ensured that his afternoon will be entirely free of appointments and has instructed his receptionist that he is completely unavailable.  He desires no distractions, of any kind.  Even so, he is sure that one afternoon of intensive thought will not serve to provide him with a full understanding of the position; however, it may succeed in providing, or creating, a common foundation.  Given his previous experiences of these patients, he is not particularly hopeful.

He considers what he has already read, as he re-reads Detective Beckett’s letters.  These show her understandable distress at her physical damage and weakness, which then begins to recede proportionately to her healing.  It is, however, obvious that her self-image has been, and remains, deeply damaged by the scarring, both physical and mental.  That has not been discussed.  He takes a blank sheet of paper: heads it neatly _Detective Beckett: matters to discuss_ , and makes a short note.  A similar sheet is prepared for Mr Castle.  He confidently expects that both sheets will be used.  The extent of issues to be covered will no doubt be considerable, and there is very little chance, on present evidence, that one or both of them will _not_ produce some further revelation.  In certain paranoid moments, which he had never experienced before these patients, he considers whether they do this specifically to annoy him.

Dr Burke reads on.  He is seriously concerned that Detective Beckett did not appear to recognise the significance of the flashbacks.  Perhaps a short discussion with the relevant hospital staff is indicated, to ensure that they provide patients with adequate information.  He suspects, however, that Detective Beckett would still not have recognised, or possibly admitted to herself, the issue.  She is remarkably blind to indicators, of all sorts, relating to herself.  He wonders whether there had been any similar symptoms, or other indicators of PTSD, following the death of her mother, and makes another note.

Much more interestingly, given the role he has inadvertently been led into performing, are Detective Beckett’s comments regarding her own feelings for Mr Castle, and her view of his feelings for her.  She appears to be entirely capable, in a version of the old quotation on believing six impossible things before breakfast, of simultaneously believing a number of contradictory matters.  She is in love with Mr Castle, but is incapable of acting upon it because, in her view, it is not returned.  She believes that Mr Castle loves, not her, but a fleshly version of his latest creation, despite having heard his words.  She also believes that Mr Castle may love her, but that this is rooted only in pity and will swiftly turn to indifference or contempt.  She believes that her scars would repulse him.  She believes that she cannot live up to the pedestal she believes he is trying to put her on.  Detective Beckett believes many things, and almost every single one of them is wrong.  Dr Burke wonders how she can possibly be such a successful detective whilst simultaneously being completely blind as to her own situation.

Mmmm.  Mr Castle’s initial deception has given rise to far deeper-rooted consequences than Dr Burke had originally appreciated.  He makes a note on Detective Beckett’s sheet: _without thinking about words, consider merely actions_.  He considers it very strange that Detective Beckett, who he presumes must have considerable investigative abilities, including some skill in interpreting body language, has not applied that to Mr Castle’s behaviour at any time; or, if she has, has completely failed to understand the results.  Or, he also thinks, she has ignored or disbelieved them.  He pursues that concept.  Running through Detective Beckett’s letters is a strong current of insecurity relating to her recovery and to emotional relationships.

Put simply, Detective Beckett does not appear to believe that a fulfilling, long-term (Dr Burke has learned never to use the word _permanent_ ) relationship is possible.  Dr Burke makes another note.  This aligns with the session where she had made it clear she thought Mr Castle would leave.  Hmm.  Detective Beckett has identified where that has come from, and has made some progress on that front.  Not before time.

It is also apparent from her later letters that Detective Beckett holds herself to an uncompromisingly, and for these purposes unreasonably, high standard; both of physical fitness and of professionalism.  Dr Burke had, of course, recognised her inability to be moderate in the stages of her recovery, but he had not understood the depth of her perfectionism.  Another note appears.  Detective Beckett seems to have adopted the view that if she cannot be perfect she cannot be loved.  Yet another note.

Dr Burke sighs, an easement he only allows himself in private.  This is really quite profoundly difficult.  He suspects that later he will require strong pain relief, and a darkened room.  Detective Beckett’s issues run far deeper than can be attributed to Mr Castle, although his actions have not helped.

He turns to Mr Castle’s letters, hoping for some relief.  He has not yet had an opportunity to read these.

These letters, Dr Burke notes, were clearly written by a person who uses words for a living.  They are extremely readable, as one would expect from a successful writer.  As with Detective Beckett’s letters, the sincerity on which they are founded is palpable, but their construction is, in the main, carefully crafted.  There are three exceptions to this: when Mr Castle was asked not to visit the hospital; when he discovered that Detective Beckett had left Manhattan with no word (although Dr Burke is impressed by Mr Castle’s subsequent deductions on very limited evidence: if only his patients would _talk_ to each other); and when Mr Castle discovered that Detective Beckett had returned, again without contacting him. Those letters are not crafted, but reflect precisely Mr Castle’s overwhelming and uncensored emotions at the time.

The letters foreshadow Mr Castle’s responses in therapy: a desire to tell Detective Beckett honestly what he feels, which, Dr Burke believes, is long overdue; a sizeable portion of sexual attraction, which is entirely unsurprising; an almost equally large portion of unhappiness at Detective Beckett’s inability or unwillingness to respond in kind, which is equally unsurprising; and underlying all of it a depth of love that Dr Burke has rarely seen.

It seems to Dr Burke, now that he has had an opportunity to consider, undisturbed, both what he has learned from his sessions and the letters which his patients have written, that Mr Castle’s issues are, at least when compared to those of Detective Beckett, relatively simple to understand.  All of them stem, quite simply and directly, from his original deception and his inability to state or demonstrate any differences in his attitude from that deception thereafter. When combined with Detective Beckett’s denial of her own feelings and strict pattern of isolating herself at any time she had been hurt, this had led to a consistent situation of mutual avoidance of any interaction where there might have been an opportunity to disclose the truth.  Indeed, there has clearly been avoidance by both patients of any situation in which they might have uttered any meaningful words on any topic whatsoever.   It is, in short vernacular, a total mess. 

Dr Burke considers the benefit of a prophylactic dose of Advil now, and rejects it for the moment, in favour of making a note on both sheets: _ask each patient why she/he has not openly talked to the other_.

Dr Burke reviews his notes, and begins to refine his thinking, noticing with some dismay that he has already spent two full hours on the joint cases, and is no nearer a clear solution to the many issues than when he began.  However, the exercise is clarifying the position, and he is sure that in due time he will at least have provided himself with a framework for further thought.

On Detective Beckett’s sheet, he adds subsidiary points to remind himself of the areas which Detective Beckett will need to consider:  _what do you think that Mr Castle feels for you?  Why do you think this?_   Dr Burke strongly believes that Detective Beckett will be assisted if she is required to express the ideas that she has, mistakenly, developed, and then be led to understand the way in which those have stemmed from her past experiences and Mr Castle’s deception, rather than being present reality.  Dr Burke wishes heartily that Mr Castle had not lied in the first place, and decides that a transfer of his imminent migraine would be ample reward for Mr Castle’s misdeed.

Having read both sets of letters, he is now professionally certain that the dysfunction in this ridiculously over-complicated relationship stems from deception and avoidance, on both patients’ parts, from start to finish.  It is, again quite simply, a soap opera.  His impending migraine is not disposing him to tolerance, and he wonders whether either patient is actually an adult.  In this regard, neither is behaving in a mature fashion.  Sending them to bed, however, is not an option open to him, however much it might temporarily solve all their issues.

The root cause of Mr Castle’s deception is plain: he originally wished for a sexual relationship with Detective Beckett, when initially rejected he concealed this objective behind an ostensible need to research, and as his feelings rapidly developed beyond a desire for simple, carnal gratification found himself incapable of confessing the truth.  Following that, he has deceived himself into thinking that if he does not allow Detective Beckett to control every aspect of their inter-relation, without demur, she will reject him permanently.  He is making good progress in addressing the second issue.  He has made only limited progress with the first.  Mr Castle must be led to understand why his deception has been so damaging.  Following that, he needs to start telling the truth.

Detective Beckett’s deception is far more complex.  Instead of deceiving others, although she has also succeeded in that, she has systematically deceived herself.  She appears to have deceived herself about her emotions for Mr Castle until this summer.  She has deceived herself as to her ability to cope with all matters without help.  And finally, most importantly, she has failed to recognise her insecurity, which has caused, in part if not indeed in whole, the first matters.

Through his gathering idiocy-induced migraine, Dr Burke finally considers the letters, and specifically whether they should be disclosed now.  Mmm.  Eventually, undoubtedly.  Presently, however, is a more difficult judgement.  Disclosure now would obviate the need for a substantial number of discussions between his patients, and would allow each of them to know the truth.  However, a lack of discussion would be highly undesirable.  Detective Beckett and Mr Castle need to learn to, and equally importantly how to, talk to each other without lies and avoidance strategies.  Actions preventing that are unhelpful.  Then, the letters present complete honesty.  Whilst any honesty between his patients would be a substantial improvement, parts of these letters, mainly those dealing with Mr Castle’s anger and misery, are likely to be disturbing to the reader.  Dr Burke’s eyes are drawn to the several Kleenex in his own waste bin.  Detective Beckett is already insecure.  Discovering the level of damage she has caused, in the victim’s own words, will only increase her negative self-image, and she is all too likely to isolate herself in consequence.  Further opportunities for isolation are unhelpful.  It is also not likely to be helpful if Mr Castle reads, at this stage, Detective Beckett’s commentary on his feelings as she sees them.  Knowing how much Detective Beckett feels for him, and has not shown, and her lack of belief in his feelings, is more likely to anger him than help him heal.

Decision made, Dr Burke takes considerable care to ensure that the envelope he will return to Mr Castle contains only his letters.  He has, of course, kept copies.  It would, however, be professionally extremely embarrassing to mix them up.

As a final thought, through Dr Burke’s now intense headache, he reconsiders whether he should recommend some more direct methods of communication, not to Mr Castle, but to Detective Beckett.  Mr Castle needs to be honest about his disagreements with Detective Beckett, and Dr Burke has no confidence that he will be so if he is, in effect, given permission to pursue the merely physical.  It is entirely possible that, at least based on his letters, having established a physical relationship he will revert back to his habit of letting Detective Beckett set the parameters of their interactions, without demur, for fear of losing her.  That would not be helpful for either of them.  Mr Castle would swiftly come to resent the position, as would Detective Beckett.  Neither can afford such a descent into martyrdom.  The same, however, might not be true if Detective Beckett were to take the first step.  Hmm.  Dr Burke will consider that.  It is not a matter that should be rushed.

He puts his papers away, takes two Advil to relieve the headache that his two patients have caused him, and considers with some pained irritation that if he can assist them to resolve their issues then at the very least he will deserve an invitation to their wedding, if not an endowment of a chair of psychotherapy, in the field of relationship counselling.

* * *

 

Castle’s finishing up yet another signing – his fingers are permanently cramped and his scrawl has become completely illegible – and thinking over the last two days.  Well, two specific aspects.  First, Kate’s very definite, if non-verbal, request to be gathered in.  Second, her expressed need for him to be at the range and then to be holding her steady.  It’s all very … encouraging.  The further she goes of her own volition, the less likely it will be that she reneges.  Mmm.  Except.  Except he wants so very badly to respond in kind – more than in kind – but he doesn’t think he’ll be able to stop if she gives him any more encouragement than she already has.  It was hard enough – _not_ a good choice of words – not to …improve matters… on their walk.  And they need to resolve things.  He thinks, sulkily, that they could resolve many, many things much more quickly in the comfort of his – or her – bedroom.  But if she’s being encouraging, if he _doesn’t_ respond she’ll think he doesn’t want to and then she’ll pull back and then… oh _hell_ …they’ll be several steps backward because she’ll never put herself out there again.  So he has to respond.  Not that that’s a hardship, but keeping it to an acceptable level is.  Maybe if he just sticks to stroking socially acceptable areas, her cheek, her hand, her waist…  His mind slips to very much more socially unacceptable areas to stroke and he’s suddenly glad he’s wearing a coat right now.

Perhaps he should go over tonight.  He hasn’t been over in the evening since he gave her that… well, ultimatum really.  He’ll take some wine.  Wine is good.  Relaxing.  And another chocolate cake.  She was a bit thin, under his hands, when he held her close in the range, and after.  When she’s not wearing bulky sweats or a coat it’s more noticeable.  A few more calories won’t hurt at all.  He wouldn’t want to squash her.  _Aargh.  Careful, Rick.  Not too fast._   Because both of them have some changing, some growing (up) to do.  Dr Burke has certainly shown him that.  Oh.  Maybe going over tonight is not such a good idea. 

But he’s made up his mind.  Time to respond, see if Kate takes another step forward.  And if not, well… he’ll wait, try again, for as long as she keeps encouraging him to hold her.  Because she never does anything without thinking through the implications, and so if she’s being encouraging it’s because she wants him closer.  She just has to get there at her own pace.  He doesn’t need to do anything except respond, as long as she’s stepping forward.


	41. Please don't let me be misunderstood

Columbus Circle is busy, even this early, and Kate is, unusually, late, arriving with apologies on her lips and desperate for her coffee.  Still, she makes it clear that hugs are indicated, sliding in close and bumping gently against Castle’s hip.  When he wraps his arm around her and strokes very lightly at her waist, she snuggles closer and it’s all he can do – and he thinks it’s all she can do, given the almost-inaudible catch in her breath – to take a step towards the Park, rather than summon a taxi and go straight to her apartment.  She’s inhaling her coffee like it’s salvation, and it’s done before they’re a hundred yards inside.  When she starts to peel off to drop it in the trash he can’t help but delay her movement, tuck her back in as soon as she’s close enough.  She’s not objecting, he notices.  Oh no.  No objections at all.  He urgently needs a distraction.

“What happened this morning?  Usually it’s me who’s late.”

“Formal notice of re-evaluation.  Two weeks’ time.”  It’s clipped off, as if she’s caging the words to stop them biting her.

“Mmm?”  He takes a chance, based only on her saying _I’m not fine_.  “Are you okay with that?”  Kate shifts unhappily.

“It’s so close, and I can’t even shoot by myself.  I need to be ready.”  She looks up, and he sees the misery behind her eyes.  “What if I can’t be ready?”

“Then you take the time you need.”  Castle doesn’t see a problem here.

“What if … what if I can’t ever?”  Insecurity?  Kate Beckett, insecure about being a homicide cop again?  The world wobbles on its axis.

“Not – never – gonna happen, Kate.  Not possible.”  She needs to hear his complete confidence.  If there’s the slightest hint of doubt, she’ll pick it up.  Fortunately he has none.  There is no possible universe where Kate doesn’t get back to being a cop.  It’s just… unimaginable, even for him.  He tugs her in as close as can be readily managed through coats and forces himself only to hold her there, exuding confidence.

“Think about it, Kate.  Four days ago, you went catatonic when you tried to shoot.  Yesterday, you didn’t, you were just spooked.”  There’s a bit of understatement.  But she doesn’t need to hear what he really thought.  “So likely tomorrow you won’t need as much help.”  He tries not to sound as if he regrets that, because really he doesn’t, it’s just that … just that it felt so good surrounding her like that, and he wants to do it all over again.

Kate thinks about that.  All of it.  Castle knows how she works, just as well as the boys, and if he has no doubt that she’ll be back, just as good as ever, and Espo’d simply said _you can_ _have all the time you need_ , then maybe this isn’t as much of a problem as she’d thought.  Still, there’s a nervous swirling in her stomach when she thinks about it, coffee roiling unpleasantly.

Castle has a thought.  “Even if you couldn’t shoot for a bit longer” – he’s hurriedly added the last four words – “you could still go back, couldn’t you?  Desk duty?”  Kate growls.

“I don’t want _desk duty_.”  It sounds like a child saying she doesn’t want to eat her greens.  “I want to be back in the field.  I want to _do my job_.”  She stops, pain welling through her words and face.  “I want my life back.”

Castle isn’t as convinced by her last sentence as he ought to be.  _Which life_ , he wonders.  _The one where we never talk about anything, never move forward; or the one which I thought we might have, right before someone shot you?_   He pulls her in even tighter in automatic denial of the thought that they might go back to their unproductive, forward-backward, previous relationship.  Perhaps they wouldn’t, though, because Kate’s leaning in and just letting herself be held.  It occurs to him, however, that although this is very pleasant the middle of Central Park is hardly discreet and even sitting on a bench would be marginally less obvious to any inquisitive passer-by.  Such as seems to comprise his mother’s intelligence network.

“Kate?”  There’s a rather muffled reply from somewhere under his chin.  “Are we gonna walk or d’you just want to go home?”

The mutter that he can’t quite hear because it’s buried in his lapel sounds more like _I wanna be back at the precinct_ than any other option.  He loosens his grip, rather unwillingly, and tips her face up so she isn’t hiding her expression from him.  The flash in her eyes as he does is indecipherable.  The underlying uncertainty and insecurity is all too clear.

“Home,” she says, miserably.  “I don’t want to walk any more today.”  She slides back against his side, looking at the ground as if it might have some answers for her.  She can feel Castle’s worried look down on the top of her head without even seeing it, and the tension suddenly in his arm.  But she wants to go home, curl up round her pillow and try to understand why she’s suddenly so scared, when she’s known this was coming for the last two weeks. 

“Okay.  Let’s get you home.”  Castle turns in the direction of the nearest park exit and moves them gently towards it, never letting go.  He’s not optimistic about the next few minutes, and when Kate flags a cab he’s sure she’s going to ask him not to come with her.  He’s not wrong about that.

“Castle, I just need some time on my own.”  Well, at least this time she’s explained what she needs, not simply disappeared.   She’s got this.  Even if explaining is hard to do.  But she hasn’t finished.  “If I’m ... if it’s better, later, I’ll let you know.  Maybe come round this evening, if ...”   She trails off, unsure what she wants to say, unsure what she wants to do.  She wants Castle there, but not now, not when she’s like this.  Later, when she’s worked out what’s wrong. 

He may not have been wrong about now, but at least there’s an attempt at a reason, and more surprisingly a half-invitation for later.  _She’s trying_ , he thinks.  _So give her space_.  Because she’s tried to explain, not run away and hidden without a word.  This isn’t backing off at the first hint of trouble, this is a mature response to a mature request.  Quite different.

“Okay,” he says again. 

“Even if I’m not... tonight, I’ll still see you tomorrow at the range, right?” 

“Course you will.  Ten thirty again?”  She’s definitely trying,  he realises.  Trying to make sure, without ever actually saying it, that he knows she wants him there.  Baby steps, in the right direction.  He watches her cab till it’s out of sight, thinking.  Then he calls Esposito.

“Espo, Castle.”

“Yo.  What d’ya want?”

“Any way you and Ryan can get out for a beer with Beckett, maybe tomorrow?  She’s missing the job.  Seems to me she needs a case to chew on.”

Espo’s not stupid, and he knows there’s more to this than Castle’s letting on.  He’s sure more went down at the range two days ago than Beckett had told him, too.  Specially after the first try had gone so badly. 

“What’s goin’ on, Castle?”  It’s a gentle enquiry, if he didn’t know Espo.  As he does, he can hear the force underneath.  “What’s Beckett doin’?”  _This time_ is floating in the air.

“She just needs to get connected to the job again.”  It’s as far as Castle’s going to go, and Espo hears the finality in his tone.  He’s sure it isn’t anything like the whole story.  Then again, they’ve got several cases on the go, and an extra pair of hands, even if it’s on a part-time, very unofficial basis, would help. 

“Okay.  We’ve gotta lot on.  I’m sure we can find her something juicy to bite on.  Just... don’t let her do too much, ‘kay?” 

Castle wonders vaguely how on earth Esposito expects him to stop Kate doing anything if she’s got a case to solve, and then thinks that he had managed precisely that when he’d suggested leaving a day between visits to the range.  How’d he done it?  Ah yes.  A suggestion, no hint of a statement, and a workable reason.  And she’d listened, not just reacted.  A grown-up discussion.  Not orders or fighting or demands that she do, or not do, something, not the heated argument over her mother’s case, but an adult exchange.  That’s new, too. 

Anyway, Kate needs something to show her she’s still a cop, even if she can’t shoot by herself yet.  They’ll see how it goes tomorrow.   He remembers he has a session with Dr Burke, early afternoon tomorrow.  He’d better do his homework: why could he change his behaviour to Kate, and why did it work?  He ambles off, pondering that.

* * *

 

Back at her apartment, Kate’s trying to work out what it is that’s making her so nervous about re-evaluation.  What does she need to be able to do?  The physical evaluation isn’t a problem: though she ought to make an appointment with her physician and make sure that she can run defensive drills and possibly even start sparring again.  She can run quite far enough, and fast enough, that the rest will be fine, especially as she passed the first time round.  She calls and makes an appointment for a few days’ time.

The psych eval.  Ah.  The tight knot in her stomach tightens further.  That’s what’s wrong.  She’s not sure that she can pass it.  Let’s think, though.  She’s been seeing the shrink, and she’s diligently performed the general desensitisation exercises.  Outside the range, she hasn’t had a flashback for almost a week, which is good, and even the momentary startlements are less intense.  She can think clearly, she’s helped Espo and Ryan solve that case, and she’s not afraid of the job.  She is a bit worried about the new Captain, but her record speaks for her, and anyway, if it all gets too much Castle will be there to smooth the edges.  So that’s okay.  New boss jitters are very understandable: she’d worked under Montgomery’s orders for years, in fact all her time in Homicide, and getting used to a new style will be a bit of a change.  The knot loosens, as she works through that.  She can deal with that.

That just leaves the shooting.  She has to sort that out.  If she needs to draw on a  perp, she won’t have time for Castle to be there.  She needs to be able to raise and fire like she used to.  So, review.  The first attempt was disastrous.  The second, however, was better.  Still so very far from acceptable, never mind good, but better.  She didn’t have a serious flashback, though there were minor ones.  Every bullet, in fact.  But by the end, she’d got at least some way to desensitisation.  She counts up on her fingers.  Two weeks to re-evaluation.  Fourteen days.  That’s at least seven more times at the range, and, she remembers, Castle had mentioned that he could get her in where he shoots.

Her mind wanders off her own troubles for a moment.  She’d forgotten Castle could shoot, surprisingly well.  She thinks about that, puts it together with the implied muscle to be able to pick her up and carry her, and acquires a rather unexpected feeling.  If she’d had to describe it, she’d have said _mmmm_. 

Rather than go back to the unpleasantness of contemplating her own issues, her brain takes another detour, back to her thoughts of the previous day, back to trying to work out  where she stands with Castle.  Where he stands with her.   If Castle’s been hiding his, fairly assertive, actions behind his unassertive words, why?  It’s not as if she isn’t surrounded by openly alpha men – just look at the contents of the bullpen, starting with Espo – so he could hardly have thought that she’d be concerned by him behaving like that.  Though he’d started out that way, and then slipped into second place, with only occasional exceptions.  (She remembers an alleyway, at that thought.)   She thinks back.  He’d forced his way into the precinct, using power and connections, and she’d been furious and impotent.  And then he’d started to change: stopped putting the moves on so overtly; (he’d still flirted, though much less often) more or less backed off; only rarely crossed her will (twice?) and never, ever come after her when she’d run away, just waited to see if she’d come back.  At the time she’d told herself that was what she wanted.  He’d been doing what she wanted.  Or said, or implied, she wanted.  So that she could tell herself that it wasn’t important.  Didn’t mean anything.  Because after all, what would a millionaire mystery writer want with an NYPD cop?  Except that every so often there’d been a different action, but then they’d never talked about it.  Any of it.  And she’d only listened to his words, and not seen the contradictions.

Again, though, _why?_   _Because you ran away_ , says the small voice in her head. _Every time it could have been different, you ran away from it._   Back to the much earlier realisation: she’s programmed to expect abandonment.  And if she expected abandonment from the normal run of people she’s been in contact with, then how much more would she have subconsciously expected it from a gossip-column staple, a rich playboy with a history of perfectly formed arm-candy?  So she never gave it a chance.  Also known as seeing only what you expect to see – or in this case, hear.  She thinks bitterly, not for the first time, that investigating crimes with the same lack of diligence that she’s applied to investigating where Castle’s coming from would have had her sacked inside her probationary period.

That’s the reason behind _her_ behaviour, though.  It still doesn’t help her understand the reason behind Castle’s.  She continues thinking.  _Try it from the other side, Kate. What did Castle see?  Put yourself in the victim’s shoes._   He saw hostile territory.  She hadn’t wanted him there, and wasn’t afraid to say so.  And while he fought back with come-ons, innuendo and general annoying-ness for a while, he started to change that almost exactly co-incident with starting on her mother’s case.  She tugs that thread a little harder.  _Focus, Kate.  This bit’s important_.  Yesterday, she finally caught on to the fact that he did that for her.  Because he cared.  _Actions, not words_.  So, at that time, his words didn’t change much, but his actions started to change a lot.  But she hadn’t noticed.  And then… then he’d confessed to interfering and she’d walked away.  But he’d still been there when she came back.  And changed more, always taking second place, letting her lead everything, and never, ever crossing her will deliberately.  Never arguing, whatever she did.  She’d got into other relationships, and he’d never said a word.  She’d thought then it was because he didn’t really care, and he’d found his own companions, which had proved it.  Even the night before the hangar, he’d not argued when she sent him away, and still been there to save her when it all went to hell and gunfire.

Okay.  Summarise.  He started to change when he started to care.  He stopped arguing about anything important when he started to care.  He’d waited for her to come back, without complaint.   _Love is patient_ .  The old words flicker through her mind.  In fact, she’d carried on for three years as if nothing had changed from the very first day, and Castle hadn’t said a word.  He’d… just let her get away with it.  Ow.  Still doesn’t answer the basic question, why?  It’s not as if she could have got rid of him… Oh.   _She_ thought she couldn’t get rid of him.   _Castle_ might have thought something very different.  Especially since Montgomery had finally told her, just before… that if she’d really raised hell, Castle would have been kicked to the kerb.

Pause.  Rewind.  If Castle thought she had the power to kick him out, and if he didn’t want kicked out – because he cared – then logically he would have made sure he didn’t get kicked out.  Which could easily mean making sure he didn’t upset her.  At all.  She remembers, suddenly painful in a way it hadn’t been at the time, what Josh had said when they broke up.   _He’s following you around like a puppy._ _You’ve got him on a string and he’s so pathetically in love_ _he doesn’t even care_ .  Oh, oh,  _ow._   Oh,  _shit_ .  Suddenly she sees the pattern, all laid out like a completed jigsaw puzzle.

He wanted to stay.  So he did _nothing_ that would screw that up.  He thought that upsetting her, Kate, would screw it up.  So he made sure he never upset her.  Even taking Gina to the Hamptons, he’d thought that she was still with Tom, so it wouldn’t upset her.  (She’s never told him differently, even now.)  Put in the bluntest possible terms, he didn’t dare argue with her in case she had him kicked out permanently.  And - she doesn’t like the next thought – for the same reason, every time she ran out on him (which was every time she got hurt) he didn’t dare call her on it.   Till now.

She’d thought he’d held all the power, because he’d forced his way in, and she couldn’t stop it, just resist.  He’d thought she held all the power, because he thought she could kick him out, and he’d lain down under it.  What a mess.  What a crazy, fucked-up mess.  This one, though, took both of them to make.


	42. Burn a little brighter now

She’s still wrapped round a cushion, not thinking any more, clinging to the fabric to hold on to a small semblance of control, when she realises that it’s a good deal later and she’d better decide whether she’s following through with an invitation to Castle to come round or whether she’s going to let him know it’s tomorrow.

How do they deal with this latest mess, then?  If it took both of them to make it, it’ll take both of them to solve it.  Ugh.  That means talking.  But not tonight.  She ought to explain about the precinct, and her worries.  She doesn’t want to talk about the other matters.  Not till she’s thought it over.  She remembers that she’s seeing Dr Burke first thing in the morning, and decides that would be a good time to untangle her muddled thoughts. 

So, Castle, or not Castle?  She wants him there, wants to curl up against him and be safe and warm and reassured that it’ll all be okay.  And a little more encouragement wouldn’t hurt, either, after she’d pulled out of this morning, even though she’d tried to explain and probably succeeded.  She’d been given the space she needed, and all she’d had to do was say she wanted it.  The raw edge of guilt for her summer behaviour rips open on the thought.

She knows, now, he’ll come, if she asks.  He always has.  But she doesn’t want him to come just because he feels he has to – thinks he can’t say no.  She doesn’t want a doormat: she can buy any number of those in the ten-cent store.  Then again, the last time she tried giving him a choice it all went wrong and they ended up fighting.  She’d thought she was giving him an option, and all he’d heard was _I don’t care._   If she starts circling that thought, she knows, she’ll still be constructing words tomorrow.  So she swipes on her phone and taps out _how about coming over later?_ ; presses _send_ before she has a chance to second-guess herself.  The knot of tension from earlier has used the time she’s been thinking about Castle to migrate to her temple.

She goes to shower, hoping hot water will soothe her headache, and her mind, and when she’s finished, not much helped, pulls out the nearest top and pants, only making sure that the top is round-necked and high enough that there is no way her scar will show.

* * *

 

Castle, unusually, is using writing to procrastinate, rather than procrastinating about writing.  He hasn’t got anywhere with his homework, and sustained thinking about his sort-of-relationship-maybe-if-you-squint with Kate has only worried him.  He thinks she’s backing off again, and he isn’t going to let her.  How to manage that, though, isn’t clear.  He can hardly drag her off to his study like some Paleolithic caveman.  Even benched, she’d kill him barehanded.  He slides away from that thought.

He’s comfortably certain that he’s mended matters with Alexis, mostly, having quietly made sure that he’s spent a goodly amount of time with her, making sure she knows he’s still, always, there for her; though he isn’t going to prod the sleeping tiger by mentioning Kate, which anyway is none of Alexis’ business.  It’s not like she’s a child who might actually need some sort of close relationship with Kate, she’s old enough that polite civility, whilst not precisely a desirable outcome, would not be too bad, especially as Alexis is still considering accelerated entry to college.  His mother’s still making it rather unsubtly clear what she thinks, but while he’d like not to be at odds with her, he isn’t going to give in on this.  She’ll just have to deal.  She’ll probably stop tutting disapprovingly, every time she sees him, eventually.

He goes back to his story, where he can be perfectly certain that he’s absolutely right in what he’s doing.  It’s fully fleshed now; he can see it stretching out in front of him, all there, racing out of the tips of his fingers on to the page without hesitation.  He writes consistently until the squawk of the reminder from his phone tells him it’s time to get ready and move out.  He resents every second he has to spend on getting ready, when he could be inside his characters’ heads. 

Writing, though, had effectively stopped him thinking about the insecurity on Kate’s face, till he had to finish.  He hadn’t liked it: it didn’t belong there.  He’s never seen her insecure before.  Which, he realises now, as he’s tugging on a jacket, reaching for an overcoat, calling goodbye, doesn’t mean she wasn’t.  The Beckett poker face is generally close to impenetrable, and anyway every time she was hurt she hid.  This is the first time he’s been around her when she’s hurt.  The first time she’s let him see it.  It’s almost a bigger concession than kissing him would have been, because she’s done that before.  Well, once.  It’s about time they did it again.  _Not a helpful thought, Rick._

He doesn’t see her text until he’s almost at tonight’s identikit party in an identikit room full of identikit fans.  He only just has time to reply _nine-ish_ before he’s forced to pull on the persona and be Rick Castle, celebrity author and totally smooth man-about-town.

* * *

 

When he gets to Kate’s, a little later than he’d hoped, she’s wearing some sort of silky crew necked top that looks infinitely strokable and drapes around her in smooth lines that conceal everything and dare him to search for it.  It’s entirely unfair.  Wearing that isn’t so much encouragement as _come and get it_.  How’s he supposed to stay _friends_ when she wears something like that?  Lost in lustful contemplation, he’s completely missed whatever she just said.

“Sorry?”

“Would you like a drink?”  There’s a familiar undertone of _Pay attention, Castle_ , but there’s also a familiar overtone of Beckett cool amusement.  Sandwiched in between, however, is a very unfamiliar tone.  It sounds like the same insecurity as earlier.  Hmm.

“Yes, please.  What’ve you got?”

“Wine?  Beer?  Coffee?  Even dishwater herbal tea, if you really want.”  She grins nastily.

“I think I’ll pass on the tea.  Wine would be good.  The catspee they serve at these parties was undoubtedly collected from the cheapest liquor store they could find.  You’d think they’d manage to produce something decent, if only because I need the anaesthetic.”  Kate snickers at him. 

“Forgotten how the rest of us live?  It’s free, Castle.  I’m sure your fans don’t care whether it’s cheap plonk or Dom Perignon, as long as they get to drink in the same room as you and collect your autograph.  Somewhere.”  She smiles even more evilly.

Castle looks professionally offended.  He knows she’s only teasing him, and responding in kind is taking his mind – well, the civilised parts of it – off that top.  Not much short of a nuclear missile will shift his hindbrain.

“I’m all grown up.  I only autograph books.”  Beckett – she’s very Beckett, somehow, at least on the surface – raises one eyebrow.

“All grown up?  Really?  So that wasn’t you playing laser tag?”  It’s just so normal, that tone of sardonic amusement.  Hindbrain takes over.

“If you come a little closer I’ll show you all grown up, Beckett.”  And just for an instant he thinks that she might.

But then she backs off to the kitchen and fusses rather distractedly with a corkscrew and some red wine.  He’s flustered her, and whilst that might have rather …interesting… consequences other times it’s not going to help now.  He goes over to peruse her bookshelves and give her, and him, a chance to recover some composure.   If she’d taken half a step towards him, all his good intentions would have burnt out.  He takes a number of slow breaths.  It isn’t really helping.  Suddenly the charged, dangerous tension between them is back, entirely unmitigated by the summer’s disasters and all their unsolved issues.

In the kitchen Kate is also taking a number of slow breaths.  Well.  If she’d wanted to know how he felt about _encouragement_ , the sharp flare of heat in his eyes and the growl in his voice would have told her.  She hadn’t even been trying to encourage him.  No question, now, that something’s still there.  A whole lot of something.  Now what?  She realises she’s turning the corkscrew end over end in her fingers, and puts it to its proper use, opening the wine.  She thinks she needs it.  It’s all rushing in on her.  Three hours ago she’d been analysing her way through the mess they’ve both made of the last three years.  Three minutes ago, if she’d taken half a step forward, it might have been… explosive.  She puts her hands flat on the cool counter and breathes some more.  For the first time since before the summer, she feels the slow fuse of raw physical attraction begin to burn. 

She picks up the bottle and glasses and returns to the main area, sets them down with a clink sufficient to attract Castle’s attention and sits on the couch, carefully leaving plenty of room.  Castle sits down neatly in the other corner, just far enough away that she can choose what to do about it.  She swallows a substantial gulp of her wine and thinks.   Earlier, she’d invited him because she wanted comfort, reassurance.  She’s had some of that.  It’s just a different reassurance from the one she expected.  She puts her glass down gently, bites her lip nervously, and slides a little way towards Castle, just far enough that if he puts his arm along the back of the couch she’ll be within it.

Castle can’t make up his mind whether staying and drinking wine with Kate is a very, very good idea or a very,very, bad one.  He knows that they haven’t resolved everything.  Or indeed, really, anything, because they haven’t talked to each other properly about the summer at all.  However much each of them have talked to Dr Burke.  Come to think of it, he hasn’t talked to Dr Burke much about the summer, it’s all been about earlier matters.  He’d meant to talk to him about the summer, when he’d started, and they haven’t mentioned that once.  Curiosity wriggles through him as he wonders what Kate talks to Dr Burke about.  It’s almost distracting him from his other feelings.  Unfortunately, as soon as he thinks that they all come crashing back.  He’s sure that this could easily become a very bad idea, except it would be amazing.  He sits down primly in the corner of the couch, a safe distance away, and holds on to his wine glass to give both his hands something socially acceptable to do.  He doesn’t feel prim at all.  And then Kate moves towards him and he’s left fighting down the insistent urge to haul her into his lap and show her exactly what _encouragement_ does to him.

He manages to preserve just enough self-control not to tug her in.  But without any effort or thought on his part at all his arm comes up behind her and his fingers curl in over that soft, sinfully strokable fabric, and he traces little patterns on it where it slithers silkily over her shoulder, which makes Kate slide a little closer and nestle in, and oh oh oh this was _so_ not a good idea at all.

He flails frantically for anything to distract him from the horde of primitive instincts bearing down on the enfeebled stockade of his good intentions, and finds it just in time.  Though his fingertips don’t still for an instant.

“What was up this morning, Kate?”  He feels a tension in her shoulders, slight stiffening in her body where it’s tucked against him.  For a minute there’s no answer.  She collects her wine and stares into it, swirling the glass as if the ensuing ripples hide the solution.

“Re-evaluation.”  He looks his question, waits for her to fill the silence, doesn’t cease the gentle circles he’s drawing on her shoulder.  “Just... shooting.  I can pass the physical – I already did and it’s better, I’m fitter, now – and I think psych will be okay, since I’ve done what the therapist told me about desensitisation, but I’ve still got to be able to shoot clean.”  She curls into herself.  Castle tightens his arm, bringing her back against him from her slight shift away, resumes the random patterns that his fingers are making, just a little closer to her neck.

“But yesterday was better..” he says, leaving the corollary, that tomorrow will be better again, unspoken between them.

“It could hardly have been worse, could it?” she spits, unconsciously echoing Esposito’s words.  “Fine cop I’ll be, freezing every time I have to draw my gun.”  She cuts that off short.  There’s a pause, slow pained breaths.  When she speaks again it’s the same misery he’d heard earlier. 

“I don’t know how to be anything else.  I don’t _want_ to be anything else.”  Another hitch in the flow, a sharp click as she puts her glass down harder than he thinks she intended, punctuation for her certainty.  “What’ll I do if I can’t be a cop?”

Castle can think of some answers to that, but he’s pretty sure that none of them will help.  Variants on a theme of _be mine_ , or _marry me, and we’ll find something to do_ , are not what’s required right now.  For once, he notices, it’s not he who’s upsetting her equilibrium.  He grips her shoulder reassuringly, folds her in.  Her quiet unhappiness scrapes at him.  His other hand, entirely of its own volition, takes over drawing squiggles in the fabric of her top, trying to find a pattern that’ll take away the insecurity.

She reaches for her wine again, realises as she moves that somehow she’s all wrapped in, where it’s warm and comforting.  It still doesn’t help the worry about going back to work.

“I counted up.  If I can only go to the range every second day then I’ve only got seven chances to sort this out.   And that’s only if Espo can get me in, with no-one else around.  I can’t do this with an audience.”

“I said, you can always come to the range I use, if you can’t get into yours.  It’s open twenty-four seven, so it’s easy to find a time when it’s empty.  And do you really need to be able to shoot, your first day back?  Are you going to be allowed out into the field that quickly?”

“You said that earlier.  I don’t _want_ desk duty.  I’m a detective.  I don’t drive a desk.  I catch killers.  And to do that,” she says it very slowly, as if he’s a dim-witted child, “I need to be able to shoot if I have to.”  She sips and swallows, runs her tongue over her lips, puts her glass down again and turns away, head bent, hair hiding her expression.  She’s shutting down, hiding away.  He can hear each breath catch on the edges of emotion she isn’t letting slip.

Kate has turned to stare out the window, focused on middle-distance emptiness, her back to Castle, though his arm is still around her.  She doesn’t want to show how upset her fears have made her.  She toes off her shoes, brings her feet up on to the cushions and leans on her knees.  She becomes aware that Castle’s still stroking in soft movements, has moved his free hand from her shoulder to her waist.  It’s soothing and hypnotic and she shifts back to lean against him, the slow fuse burning just a fraction brighter, faster.  There’s a momentary pause in the pattern, and then a gentle tug so that she’s settled in, head against his chest.

“Kate, it’s okay.  You just need time.”  She doesn’t want to take time.  Why does everyone want her to take time over everything?  She twitches in irritation at the constraints she’s under.

Castle, with considerable effort, has been keeping his fingers light and discreet, staying to neutral territory, despite the temptations of Kate’s top.  He’s mentally congratulating himself on his civilised, mature behaviour in the face of substantial, and worse completely unconscious, provocation, when Kate jerks and his hand slips off her midriff and ends up rather higher on her leg than is safe for either of them.  When she whips her head up to look at him, this time he’s perfectly able to decipher the flash in her eyes, because it’s the same expression he suspects she can see in his. 

And then it’s too late for any thinking or restraint or common sense at all, because she’s right there and her lips are parted and just so kissable but before he can think _this is not a good idea_ she’s kissing him ( _she’s_ kissing _him!_ ) and _oh my god_ he pulls her across on to his lap and she slides her hands round his neck and she’s open under his mouth so he can explore and seek and challenge with his tongue and lips and keep her pressed in against him and _oh_ she feels so good right there.

Kate doesn’t care if this is a good idea or not.  Castle’s hand on her thigh has triggered all the previous tension and raw desire that flashed so briefly into life in an alleyway and has stayed locked down ever since.  The touch might have been accidental – she’s sure it was – but right now she’s got the perfect opportunity to take a step forward and she’s _taking_ it.  And it certainly doesn’t feel like Castle’s objecting.  Oh, he’s very much not objecting.


	43. The scars of your love

Castle isn’t in any state to think.  All investigation of whether this was a good or bad idea flew out his brain the moment Kate kissed him ( _she_ kissed _him!_ ) and the only thought in his head is that he never, ever wants to let go of her.  He brings a hand round to tangle in her hair and make sure she’s as close in as he’s wanted her to be for all those months (and years) and devotes himself solely to delivering potent, drugging, slow kisses and enjoying the same in return.  He hadn’t known _anything_ , when he’d thought that the alleyway had been amazing.  Nothing at all.  And on that thought he leans further in and his kisses change to harder, more possessive, and she’s soft and yielding and this doesn’t seem an awful lot like _Beckett_ but he thinks it might be an awful lot like _Kate_.  But when he glides an insinuating hand down over her back and up again under the silky top, over smooth hot skin, she shudders and surfaces, pulling back.  He reboots his speech centres.

“What’s wrong, Kate?”  That hadn’t felt like the good kind of shudder.  It almost felt like repulsion.  A thin stiletto of unease slides into him.  This isn’t good.  This isn’t good at all.

She doesn’t regret kissing him for an instant.  This was emphatically _not_ a mistake.  But.  But it’s definitely too early and they absolutely have to talk (she spits, mentally) about their joint and several issues, preferably _before_ everything gets completely out of hand. (like in around five more minutes, the way that was going)  And all of those are good and valid reasons but they’re not the whole truth.  She’s embarrassed by, ashamed of, her scars: the one that killed her and, just as much, the one that saved her; both still all-too-visible reminders of her trauma.  And it was pretty obvious that her top wasn’t going to last much longer.

She looks up, down and away, up again; the mood thoroughly broken, tries to slide off Castle’s lap and finds herself prevented.

“Uh-uh.  Stay here.  ‘S comfy, and I just wanna cuddle.”  He gazes down appealingly, big blue eyes still hazy, softening.  “What’s wrong?” he asks again.

“I...it’s... this...” Her words stumble out, as faltering as a drunken panhandler.  “I’m not.... I thought I could...” she drops her head, mumbles into her hair against his shoulder.  “I hate the scars.”

Castle’s shocked hard out of any remnants of desire.  That wasn’t what he’d expected to hear.  On the other hand, despite a certain degree of... er... discomfort, it’s good that one of them stopped. Probably.  Possibly.  Maybe.  Not.  This is not a good line of thought to be following, when Kate’s still sitting in his lap.  Well, slumped, and clearly miserable again.  It had all been going so _well_ , until two minutes ago.  And it had all been her idea.  And now she’s upset by something that he couldn’t care less about, and he doesn’t understand why at all.  Doesn’t she know he doesn’t care about the scars?

 _Think, Rick.  How would she know that?_ He’s never mentioned it.  They’ve not been in a place where the subject might arise.  Nothing new there, then.  They’ve never been in a place where any serious subject might arise, till the last two weeks.

“I don’t care about your scars,” he murmurs, and runs his fingers along her ribs, over the top.  She flinches away from his touch.

“You haven’t seen them,” she bites.  “You don’t want to.”

He clamps his mouth shut on an immediate response of _don’t tell me what I do or don’t want_ , and settles for a noise of general disagreement and a slight close of his arms.  She’s retreated into herself, all the openness of a few moments ago gone as if it had never been.  He remembers that he doesn’t have to do the same, doesn’t have to let her run away.  He’s allowed to say what he thinks, or feels.

“I don’t care about the scars,” he says again, more forcefully.  “They’re not you.  They don’t matter.”  His words fall into the silence without rippling her stillness.  Words, he understands, are not working.  He hugs her closer, trying to show her that he means it, tries again.

“I came to see you all those days in ICU, even when you were unconscious, wired up to the monitors, tubes and IV lines everywhere.  It didn’t” – he revises the end of that sentence abruptly.  Encouragement and kisses or not, _stop me loving you_ is a little too much truth for either of them to bear right now, because although he knows she heard him, she knows his feelings then, he still has to be so very, very careful not to pressure her – “change what I thought – think – of you.”  He recalls her response to his flirting in the hospital, when he brought her nightwear.  Hmm.  This isn’t simply a problem caused by the sudden uptick in their relationship.  (He thinks that if she’s kissing him then this can definitely be classed as a relationship.)  She still doesn’t look at him, and even though she’s tucked in his lap, in his embrace, she might as well be back upstate for all the connection there currently is between them.

Kate’s thinking unhappily that it’s all going wrong, and it’s all because of her.  Again. She shouldn’t have started this, if she was going to freeze up as soon as they passed first base.  Part of her wants Castle to let her go, leave and let her deal with her misery alone, but it doesn’t seem like that’s going to happen in the immediate future and anyway that’s just another way of running away without notice, which she’s trying not to do any more.  Hard on the heels of that thought, she recognises that she wants the comfort more.  So she says nothing, does nothing, and especially doesn’t pull away.

But she still can’t explain why she’s crashed on the rocks of her scars, when in every other way she’s been subtly (and this evening not so subtly) encouraging him.  She knows why, though, it’s just that it sounds vain and petty and pathetic even in her own head, just another indicator of how damaged she is, so how much worse will it sound if spoken?  How does she say _I feel ugly when I see them and I can’t manage to believe you won’t feel the same_ , without being incredibly, appallingly hurtful?  She _knows_ , intellectually, he isn’t that shallow any more.  She _knows_ , through thinking about his actions, that he cares.  And she also _knows_ that he’ll likely not argue, whatever he wants from her, (and she thinks she’s beginning to suspect what that is, though it scares her, because she doesn’t see how she can ever be enough for him) whatever she says, because he’s still scared she’ll push him away.  It’s not as if he doesn’t have reason to.  But she can’t get past her _feelings_ , can’t think what to say.  Words aren’t her game, she’s not good at them.  Insecurity, inadequacy, claws at her, and she shivers, nestles in to seek warmth, and protection from her own demons.  It’s all going wrong, and she can’t see how to fix it, because she doesn’t have  the words.

Castle doesn’t presently see how to fix it either.  He’s hardly unaware of the pernicious poison of body-image issues – living all his life with women and theatrical types he could barely have missed them – but being a mere, if ruggedly handsome, (he preens, just a little) male, he has no idea how to help solve them.  He’s certainly never managed it before.  Somehow he thinks that the direct approach of kissing Kate back into that oh-so-sexy, soft receptiveness and then simply ripping off that _touch-me_ top and kissing the scars till she believes him, (or stops thinking about them, or just stops thinking) would be wholly wrong, on so many levels.  Not to mention that she’d kill him with her bare hands and Esposito, Ryan and Lanie would cover it up for her. 

Okay, so Plan B, then. Except there is no Plan B, yet.  Plan B is limited to _keep Kate in my arms and kiss her as often as possible_.  Which might be the best idea he’s had in the last five minutes.  He slips one hand up round her neck, the taut line of her jaw, and tips her face up to be in view, brings his own lips down on to hers.  It’s not, at first, the same flaring intensity of a few moments ago, of an alleyway far too long ago: it starts softly and slowly and has no pressure or demands or expectations, till gradually it starts to burn and Kate’s back to being pressed in against him and responsive and open to him and _she’s mine_ and he is never going to let her hide from him again.  More possessive thoughts, he realises.  He’s not like that.  It’s not his style.  He’s never been possessive, never wanted to assert his relationships, never, really, cared to, or needed to.  But now he wants to, and he doesn’t understand why it should be so very different, when Kate Beckett is the last woman on earth who actually _needs_ that sort of reaction.

Very slowly Kate surfaces from the fog of sexual attraction and realises that for all the serious intent behind the kissing Castle hasn’t tried to touch her anywhere near the scars, nor indeed under the top at all, since she’d frozen up.  She shifts a little, thinking that it’s time this make-out session came to an end: it’s getting late and she has an appointment with Dr Burke in the morning.  Much as she’d like Castle to stay longer, it’s not a good plan.  They have to start resolving some issues between themselves, soon, and drowning them in sex is not going to be a good start.  Always assuming, she thinks acidly, that she could even get beyond pre-teen making out.  At least, though, at least she stepped forward, took her chance.  But now it’s time to stop.  She makes a definite move away and feels a little rill of pleasure when Castle makes a noise of considerable disappointment and takes rather more time than is strictly necessary to loosen his arms.

“It’s late, Castle.”  She carefully doesn’t use the term _it’s my bedtime_ , which would have unfortunate connotations.  “It’s time for you to go home.”   Castle makes an unhappy face and produces his best puppy eyes.

“Really, Kate?  You’re sending me home?  You sure you don’t want me to stay?”  His voice insinuates all sorts of interesting ideas.  But then he looks a little more carefully and stops playing that game.  She looks tired, now, and anyway the effort of keeping away from flashpoints of all flavours is beginning to become a serious strain.  She’s right, though he doesn’t have to like it.  “Okay.”  He reluctantly lets go of her and finds his jacket, shrugging it on as he follows her to the door.  Before she opens it, he stops her with a hand on her shoulder.  He needs her to know something, before he leaves.

“Kate, I meant it.  I really don’t care about the scars.  It’s only you who does.  I’ll still be here, when you’re ready.”  He pulls her in tight, drops kisses on the top of her head, lets her absorb that statement.  When she looks up he can’t read her face, but the set of her shoulders is looser.  He thinks he’s pitched it right: reassurance without pressure.  This is progress, he reminds himself.  Immense progress.  _She_ kissed _him_.  He kisses her once more, gently, and removes himself before everything flares again and he does something profoundly stupid.

* * *

 

Kate hadn’t slept particularly well, after Castle left, a toxic combination of insecurity about the scars, and whether it’s fair to encourage if she can’t go further, and the tension of frustration, of unsatisfied desire.  She’d woken too early, gone out and run too far in an effort to clear her head and calm her body, and now she’s on her way to Dr Burke and unhappily certain that she’ll have to talk about a subject that she doesn’t want to examine.  Which would be almost any subject, right now, unless he wants to discuss the stunning fall colours in New Hampshire.  She doesn’t think she’ll be that lucky.  And after the latest piece of slow-motion car crash that constitutes her therapy sessions she remembers even more miserably that she needs to force herself to the range and try again.  Maybe today she’ll manage two whole clips, in an hour.  Maybe she won’t need Castle holding her steady, holding her through the terror, this time.  Maybe there are fat pink pigs in a holding pattern over JFK, too.  The day is not starting well.

Dr Burke is his usual formal, smooth self, inscrutably professional.  He gives her a choice of topics, unusually.

“Kate, at the end of our last session I invited you to consider firstly why Mr Castle would interfere in your mother’s case and secondly the difference between help and control.  We can discuss those areas, or we can discuss some matters which are evident from your letters.  Which would you prefer?” 

 _Neither_ is not going to be an acceptable answer.  But she’s done her homework, she knows the answers to the first two areas.  At least, she thinks she does.

“Last time’s homework,” she says, with a note of resignation that Dr Burke doesn’t miss.

“Tell me your conclusions, Kate.”

“Help I have a choice about. Control I don’t.”  She’s very clipped.

“What has that told you?”  Detective Beckett’s raw intelligence is not in question.  She is an extremely intelligent woman.  It is, therefore, a considerable disappointment that she has not applied it to her own life earlier.  He watches Detective Beckett’s face twist unpleasantly.  It seems, he surmises, that she has realised something that she would very much rather not have known.  He is not disappointed when she speaks.

“I had a choice, in the summer.  No-one was forcing me to do anything.  If I had said, they would have backed off.  But I didn’t say, I just went upstate without telling anyone, and everyone got hurt.  It was my fault everyone got hurt.”  Dr Burke is pleased at her realisation, but preserves his countenance.  Detective Beckett must not be allowed to think that he is amused by her evident upset.  He is not.  The destruction of her comforting illusion, so apparent from her letters, that she could depart upstate without causing her friends significant worry and hurt; indeed, that that action would relieve their worry over her, is unlikely to have been easy to deal with.

“Kate, why did you feel you had to go upstate and be alone?”  Dr Burke believes that this may be the key question, based on his review of her letters, to force Detective Beckett to start to consider the roots of her issues.

Kate doesn’t like that question at all.  Not because she doesn’t know the answer – she does – but because she’s going to have to say it.  And once she says it, it’s real, and she can’t ignore it when it suits her.

“I needed to do it on my own,” she says, dragging the words out of her throat.  “I couldn’t trust that anyone else would help.  I thought…” she remembers what she’d said to Esposito, “they’d all give up on me.  Thought I’d hurt them less if I wasn’t there.”  She draws a deep breath.  “I thought they’d all stop worrying about me.  I couldn’t cope with them all watching and waiting and worrying and hoping and _caring_.”  The last word is close to a sob.  Dr Burke waits, exuding empathetic silence.  He observes in appalled amazement and not a little admiration, only just concealed, as Detective Beckett pulls every hint of emotion back inside her and removes all expression from her face, replacing it by a visage which he expects conforms to her professional demeanour.  He now understands, in a way which had not previously been at all obvious, why Mr Castle had been, and possibly still is, so uncertain about Detective Beckett’s feelings.  This is clearly a learned response to trauma.  Today’s complication becomes evident.  When she speaks again there is no intonation at all.  Dr Burke becomes concerned.

“People who care about me get hurt.  Or leave.  Or both.  It was easier” – Dr Burke notes the use of _was_ – “to be alone.  That way people don’t get hurt.”

“You said ‘was’, Kate?”

“People got hurt anyway.”  It’s the same chill lack of tonality, perfectly repressed emotion.  Until it breaks.  “Espo told me.  Lanie told me.  Castle told me.  Showed me.”  Dr Burke does not ask for elucidation of the last two, deeply pained, words.  Those are perfectly clear to him from her letter, written immediately after meeting Mr Castle at a book signing; and Mr Castle’s letter when he had discovered her return to New York.  “I was wrong to go upstate without talking to everyone.  They’d have given me space, if I’d asked.  They wouldn’t have thought less of me.”

“I can’t do that again.”  That has the sharp snap of a decision, or an order.  Detective Beckett is fully inhabiting her professional persona.  Hiding, in fact.  “Espo showed me.  Told me it went both ways.”

“So, to be clear, Kate, you went upstate because you were unable to accept that your friends would support you.  However, you have been told otherwise by Mr – Espo?”

“Detective Esposito.  Part of my team.”  Ah.  A person without an obvious agenda, and capable of expressing his thoughts to Detective Beckett in a language she would understand.  Very helpful.

“So I went home and thought about what Espo said, along with what you said.    So when I was upset yesterday I said I wanted space rather than just took it, and Castle gave me it, but I invited him round later and we were good.”  Dr Burke notices a slight undertone to that statement; a little mischievous, a little smug.  Detective Beckett has shaken off her persona, and is once more revealing her thoughts.  Dr Burke wonders how much the, evidently pleasant, thought of Mr Castle has to do with her change of attitude, and why.  However, time is up for the day.

“Kate, before our next session please continue to consider Mr Castle’s continued involvement in your life.  I believe you should make an appointment for no more than three days from now.  I would like you to have taken further steps, building on the significant progress you are making now, to resolve these areas before your re-evaluation.”


	44. Starin' down the bullet

Kate is not vastly cheered by Dr Burke’s encouraging words, but she supposes it’s better than nothing.  She knows that re-evaluation will probably also require Dr Burke to confirm she is fit for duty, and she’s not going to mess that up.  So if he needs her to re-attend, she will.  It’s just as well the NYPD insurance is paying for it, though, otherwise she’d need a size of bank loan that would bail out the Fed.  Anyway, time for the next unpleasantness of the day, the range.

Esposito’s waiting for her there, looking slightly less disapproving than two days ago.  Still, that isn’t exactly wholesale happiness being lavished on her.

“Yo, Beckett.  Ya sure you’re on for this?”

“Yes.  Haven’t we had this discussion?  I gotta.  Everything else is getting sorted.  I need to sort this out too.  I won’t carry on if it starts going wrong.”

Esposito hrmphs disgustedly and stops arguing.  “Where is your back-up, anyway?  He should be here by now.  I’m not taking you in unless he’s here.”  While that piece of irritation is subsiding, he thinks of another tack.  “Beckett, you wanna come for a beer tonight with me and Ryan?  We got a lot on right now, and we could use some help – off the book, yeah?  Seeing as you’re just sitting on your ass at home, doin’ nothing” – Beckett splutters wrathfully at him and follows up with a glare – “you could help us out, without it interrupting your busy social life. You can bring Writer-Boy, if you like, so we’ve all got some crazy ideas to laugh at.”  He grins evilly.  He can see he’s hooked her from the first mention of _some help_.  But Beckett’s not that easy.

“So what you’re saying, Espo, is that without me you and Ryan can’t actually handle the caseload?  Did I get that right?”  She quirks up an eyebrow just as she would have before the summer, and watches Espo start to squirm, just as _he_ would have before the summer.  Without her noticing, a chunk of Detective Beckett-ness starts to slip back into place.  Being needed makes her happy.  Having something to do, even more so.  Suddenly the day’s got a whole lot better.  She’ll check the news for pigs circling over JFK, later. 

Castle turns up, puffing and breathless, just as Esposito’s about to start defending himself.  Espo’s pretty relieved.  Beckett was looking as if a little casual ragging wasn’t where she was planning to stop. 

“Sorry-I’m-late-I-lost-track-of-time-I-was-writing.” He smiles apologetically, as if that should be enough excuse.  _Oh no, Castle.  That’s just not good enough.  Time to mess with you a little._  

“And you don’t even have coffee with you.  You just can’t get the help these days.”  Kate smirks up at Castle in a way that makes it fairly clear that she’s pretending offence.  Still, he stammers and sputters and ends up trailing in behind Esposito, ineffectually trying to hide. 

“I’ll get you coffee after, okay?”  And then Castle notices that Kate is much more like Beckett and decides a little ragging is perfectly allowable.  “Please tell me you’ve had some coffee _before_ anyone puts a gun in your hand?  If you’ve not had coffee I think it’s a safety issue.  Don’t you agree, Espo?”  Esposito is not stupid enough to reply.

Beckett glares at him.  It’s beautifully familiar.  “I won’t need a gun to deal with you, Castle.  I can take you with one hand tied behind my back.”

“Really, Beckett?  Wanna try?”  The words are (mostly) innocent.  The tone is anything but.  Beckett colours slightly, taking the implication without effort.  Now it’s Castle’s turn to smirk.  Fortunately Esposito can’t see the expression on his face.  It’s reasonably certain that it would get him arrested for indecent grinning in a public place.  Buoyed up on Beckett’s familiar look of irritation, he reaches for her hand and manages to squeeze it and let go before Espo turns round.  That doesn’t get a glare.  It gets a look that says _save it for later_.  Very hopeful.  Very hopeful indeed.  But Beckett’s ignoring him in favour of talking to Esposito – ah, about tonight?  So Espo’s taken his suggestion.  That explains the substantial feeling of Beckett-ness.  He congratulates himself on the success of his brilliant idea and as a consequence nearly walks into the door.  Not that the others notice his pain.

“So I’ll see you and Ryan at the Old Haunt at 7.30 or so?” Beckett’s saying.

“Sure.  Now, one Glock, three clips, an’ you remember that if anything at all goes wrong ya stop, okay?”  Castle can see the eye roll through the back of Beckett’s head. 

But as soon as Esposito’s left a measure of Beckett drains away and she looks rather more Kate, rather more scared, than a moment ago.  She steps much closer to Castle, staring down at the gun and the clips, flicks up a glance which asks for reassurance, drops her eyes to the gun again.

“You got this, Kate,” Castle says, no teasing tone left, and gives her a brief hug.  If it weren’t brief, he thinks, he’d be considering a rather more … enthusiastic… reassurance, which wouldn’t be related to guns at all.  Suddenly she shrugs, as if she’s throwing off a coat, glares at the clips and the gun as if they’ve offended her and stalks into a booth.  Clearly, she’s decided to hit the problem head-on.  By the time Castle’s followed her she’s loading the first clip, and though her hands are not entirely steady and her lip is shredding under her teeth, it’s clear that she is not inclined, today, to be defeated at the very first point.  The rush of adrenalin ceases, though, when she chambers a round, and hard upon the click stops, leaving the gun pointed at the floor.

Kate had got through loading on a surge of confidence largely based on Esposito’s request for help.  When it wears off, though, drowned by the sight of the gun and the insidious knowledge that this is the biggest hurdle to getting back to the precinct, she’s  left looking at a loaded piece and her hands shaking and palsied.  She can sense Castle standing behind her, waiting for her to decide what she needs.  For a minute she simply breathes, trying to calm herself and still the trembling in her hands, looking at the gun and repeating silently what Esposito had told her last time: _it’s just a tool, what matters is how it’s used._   It’s not working.  After another minute she glances round to find Castle, summons him with one strained look, and waits for him to join her in the booth.

“I need you to help, again.”  The last word carries a freighter load of bitterness.  “Please?”  Just like last time, Castle slides into place behind her, lets her relax fractionally into him, and steadies her hands on the Glock.

“Okay.”   Kate raises, somewhat more smoothly than two days ago, and fires at the top of the draw just as she ought to.  Well, ought to if there weren’t two of them holding the gun, anyway.  And although she freezes at the shot, she’s shivering less badly than the other day.

First clip finished, slowly, but with less (certainly not _no_ ) reviewing, tension, or huddling, she asks Castle to take his hands off the gun, but support her.  He puts his big palms over her waist and stands patiently.  Kate looks balefully at the target, raises for the shot and just about manages to hit within the outline.  Her expression is equal levels of misery and disgust with herself.

“I used to be able to put five shots through the chest in rapid fire.  And look at that.  I might just about have ripped a coat.  If it flapped.  That won’t stop anyone, unless they’re laughing too much to move.”  It doesn’t sound like a joke.  Her shoulders slump, and Castle longs to comfort her.  But now is not the time.

“So do it again,” he says briskly.  The tone flicks her on the raw.  Her back straightens, her head rises, and Castle knows that he will probably die when this is all over because she clearly hasn’t appreciated that tone of voice _at all_.  But her pride has taken over, and there’s a lot of that to support her.

The next shot is still pretty poor, by Kate’s previous standards.  But it’s better.  And she’s aiming, all by herself, not reliant on Castle’s grip.  Though she definitely needs him there.   She can’t do this alone.

When the hour is up, all three clips are gone, and Kate’s aim is improving.  It’s still, she thinks acidly, an even bet whether she could hit a suspect – or a barn door – at ten paces, but she hasn’t freaked out, she hasn’t had a flashback, and she hasn’t spent quite as much time being cuddled and soothed and reassured.  All of which is a very good thing, but it’s all so very, very slow.  She needs coffee, she decides.

“Coffee, Castle?  Seeing as you didn’t bring one earlier?”  And maybe a little bit of reassurance, so to speak.

“Sure.  Round here?”  Castle is also feeling that a small amount of … reassurance … is indicated, but he’s not sure that it will be a good idea if they’re in the vicinity of the precinct with the chance of lots of familiar faces passing by.  He doesn’t guess that Kate will allow him to be reassuring at all if there’s a possibility anyone other than Ryan or Espo will see it, and he’s none too sure about them.  However, it looks like Kate’s making the same calculations.  She’s wrinkled up her nose and is clearly considering other options.  Finally she nods briskly, as if she’s decided something, and says _come on_.

They eventually end up some reasonable distance from the range and the precinct, where there’s not likely to be anyone who might ask difficult questions.  Kate slips neatly into a small booth near the back of the coffee bar and looks pleased when Castle ignores the seats opposite and sits beside her, stretching his arm along the back of the cushions in best innocent male _I’m not doing anything except stretching_ fashion.  That lasts almost a whole minute until Kate moves very slightly into him and he gives up pretending that he isn’t going to make sure she’s wrapped in.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Been better.”  She sounds depressed.  It’s not improved when their coffees arrive.  Kate buries her nose in the mug and doesn’t look like she’ll be emerging any time soon.

“It _was_ better, though.  You didn’t need me to hold the gun.  Another coupla goes, and you won’t need me there at all.”  He tries not to sound very disappointed with that thought.

“I’m sure I can find other uses for you, Castle.”  He’s just about to make a cheap crack as to exactly _how_ he can be useful when she forestalls him.  “You’re more interesting to talk to than a spaniel.”  He chokes and sputters.  A _spaniel_?   She could at least compare him to something a little more... butch.  A wolfhound, say.  He forces his ill-disciplined mind away from thoughts of being wolfish and returns his attention to Kate. She doesn’t seem to have noticed his momentary lapse, staring back into her mug.  “I’ll still want you around.”  It’s so faint, almost under her breath, that he isn’t sure he was supposed to hear that.  Especially in that precise intonation that she only uses when she’s sure what the outcome ought to be but hasn’t the evidence to prove it.  It dawns on him that reassurance or not she’s still pretty insecure about him.  Them.  He’ll make sure she has her evidence.  Just as soon as she’s ready for it.  In the meantime, now...

The hand that’s not occupied around Kate’s shoulder arrives on the table, intertwines itself with hers and generally makes its views on the desirability of affectionate touching very clear.  When Kate’s hand turns up under it to be more comfortably arranged, Castle tightens his clasp in a way that intends rather more than just _friends_.  They’re a little way past friends, after last night.  He thinks.  He hopes.  ( _Jackass_ , a little voice says in his head.  _Don’t be more of an idiot than you already are. Of course you are.  Get back to this planet, stat._ )  Still, he feels the need to pull her closer, and when she is, he also feels the need to kiss her, gently and undemandingly and for less time than he’d – and from her reaction she’d - like.  They’re in public, after all.

Coffee done, Kate thinks that she ought to get back to her apartment, put some effort into Dr Burke’s homework so that she can pass pysch, maybe go for a run.

“Castle, I probably need to get home.  D’you want to come out with me and the boys tonight, or have you got one of your favourite book parties?”  Castle growls.

“It would serve you right if you had to come to these,” he grumps.  “Though at least I’d get to see you in a dress.  Wait – you could come.  You could come to any of them.  Or all of them.  How about it?”  He sounds thoroughly enthusiastic at the thought.

“Let’s see now.  Seeing the boys and talking cop business with a decent micro-brew and fries, or getting dressed up so you can leer at my legs and doing the pretty with a bunch of New York luvvies from publishing, all the while surrounded by press looking to fill the gossip columns and fans glaring at me.  Hmm.  Hard choice, Castle.  But I’d rather stick pins in your eyes than come to another book party.”

“Don’t you mean stick pins in _your_ eyes?”  She snickers.

“No.  I mean yours.  Why would I stick pins in my eyes?  That would hurt.”

“So I guess you won’t come with me then,” he sulks.  If he has to suffer through the PR schedule, so should she.  And yes, there’s more than a little desire to show her off, show everyone that they’re (nearly) a them.

“No.  I’m not arm candy and I don’t want to be on page six.  You could join us at the Old Haunt when you’re done, if you want to.”  He’s not sure that was wholly a suggestion.

“What if I don’t want to?”  He says it very seriously, meaning to wind her up.  Kate looks at him searchingly, and then looks away, the light in her eyes dimming.

“If you don’t want to, then you don’t have to.”  Oh shit, that attempt at humour has fallen flatter than a pancake his mother might have made.  She’s halfway back to the _I don’t care please yourself_ tone that he hates so much because she just uses it to hide what she thinks and feels.  And he’s precipitated it, and now she’s moving away from him physically and mentally, and she’d just seemed so much better that he’d forgotten how fragile she still is.   He’d only thought two minutes ago how insecure she seemed.  Well, here’s the proof.  Pre-bullet, Beckett – she would have been Beckett, then – would have made some sarcastic, flip comment, given him the bird and probably maimed his ear.  This Kate is simply slipping away from him without a word.  No.  Not happening.

“That was supposed to be a joke, Kate.”  There’s not much lightening of the mood.  “Of course I’ll be there.  Whether you want me to come or not.”  She doesn’t say anything, clearly trying to assess what he means, what he actually wants.

“You don’t have to do things just because I ask you, you know.”  What?  Where’s that come from?  He never does anything he doesn’t want to, according to Beckett.  “You’re perfectly free to say no, do what you want instead.”  It’s not hurt, it’s not even snarky.  It’s...calm, cool, controlled.  It’s also, he is sure, hiding something.  The word _flabbergasted_ ricochets around inside his emptied head.  He doesn’t understand at all what she’s trying to say, except that she’s not using that _I don’t care_ voice, which he supposes is some sort of an improvement.  But she’s still a lot further away than he likes, now that he’s got used to having her tucked in.  He tugs, hopefully.  She doesn’t move.  A small cold chill slithers down his vertebrae.  She’d been trying to _encourage_ , he realises, and in trying to be the funny kid he’s pitched it all wrong and despite all the evidence of the last few minutes and last night, now he’s tripped some over-sensitive alarm wire somewhere in her head and she thinks he’s stepping back.  So she is too.  _Fuck_.  Right.  He is not playing this game again.  He’s screwed up, he knows how, and he needs to fix it.  Fast.

He tugs harder.  Kate perforce arrives where she ought to be, and before she has the chance to say anything he does.

“I don’t need to do anything just because you ask me.”  He means it.  He can’t be kicked out, any more, because he already has been, so if she doesn’t want him around she’ll have to say so.  And she’s saying – with her actions – exactly the opposite.  “I do it because I want to.  If I don’t want to, I’ll tell you, and I won’t do it.  Got it?  I’m coming tonight.  The end.”  And when he sees the doubt still pooling in her eyes he leans down and kisses her before she can say anything at all.  When he pulls back, far too soon, again, for his taste, there’s still some doubt, with something else.  But she’s stopped pulling away, and the awful apartness seems to have dissipated.  Whatever he’s done, it’s worked.  For now.  He’ll think about why later.

Kate hears the sincerity as Castle’s talking, matches it up to how he’d been behaving, earlier, and is gradually becoming less shaken by his failed attempt at a joke.   Still, it’s painful to realise that she can’t tell when he’s yanking her chain any more.  She’s still unhappy about that when he stops talking and kisses her, with the same sincerity that had been in his words.  It feels like a promise.


	45. You've got your head all tangled up

“I need to get home,” Kate murmurs.  Castle thinks.  He doesn’t want to let her go, but he’s seeing Dr Burke after lunch and he needs to figure out what’s going on with Kate.  Maybe some thinking time, or some writing without thinking about Kate, will clear his head.  Maybe he’ll understand her insecurity, about her scars, about them.

“Okay.”  Still... “Can I see you home?”

“If you’ve time.”  What is it with Kate right now?  She’s making it very clear he doesn’t need to follow her.  But it doesn’t feel like she’s sending him away.  He parks that for later, too.

“I’ve got time.  Let’s go.”

Castle’s holding her hand, all the way home, large grip swamping her fingers.  They don’t really talk.  Kate’s still hiding how much his flip comment had rocked her, how perfectly it had picked up all her insecurities about why he’s stayed around.  Castle’s pondering why Kate’s suddenly so uncertain about what he wants to do.  He thought it was fairly obvious.  It’s not, Kate thinks, an _unpleasant_ silence, more… intense.  There’s a lot of thinking going on, which hasn’t left much room to talk.  But she’s holding his hand, just like a regular relationship, despite all the issues and problems and unresolved, unspoken matters, and it feels nice.

Castle walks her right to her apartment door, very properly.  She’s searching out her keys from her purse and it’s really not helping that he’s stopped holding her hand and started holding her waist.  It’s definitely not helpful.  She’s got plenty things to do, but right now the new top item on her to do list is dragging Castle inside and kissing him up against the door until he squeaks.  Or some such noise.  Until she remembers the scars, and that teasing is only fair if you can actually play on.  There are words for that other game, and she doesn’t like them; doesn’t play it.

She looks up.  Irrelevantly, she thinks she’d better start wearing heels a bit more often, get used to them again.  And not so incidentally, be a rather more convenient height for things.  Um. 

“Thanks for the company, Castle.  See you later.”  She lifts up on her tiptoes and presses a kiss to his cheek, in what she feels is a safe-but-encouraging manner.  It doesn’t work.  This being considerably more private than a coffee bar, Castle takes the opportunity to kiss her rather less safely and rather more intensely than earlier.  It feels like he’s trying to prove something.  She’s still trying to work out what that is after he’s said _See you later_ and disappeared.

* * *

 

Castle finds a convenient lunch spot and settles into a booth with the good old New York classic of pastrami on rye and a small barrel of coffee.  He wants to think, before Dr Burke forces him to.  Specifically, he wants to think about Kate.  Not that this is anything new.  One way or another, Beckett, Kate, or Nikki Heat, he spends the majority of his time thinking about Kate.  But now he can disentangle that when he’s writing.  Kate Beckett may inform Nikki Heat but she is not her.  He needs to keep that very firmly in mind. 

So, Kate.  Who isn’t Beckett, right now, most of the time.  Who’s painfully unsure of her ability to get back to being a cop, even more insecure about her injuries, and despite providing him with a considerable amount of encouragement which he thought he’d been returning with interest is talking as if she doesn’t wholly believe he wants to be with her.  She was, in fact, taking considerable care today to give him an out.  As if he hasn’t had plenty practice at getting out – not so much fifty ways to leave your lover, but a hundred and fifty.  If he wanted out, he could do it in no time at all.

Why’s she so insecure?  It’s not as if he hasn’t spent three years showing her, with coffee and theories, red dresses and ransom payments, and occasional life-saving, how much she means.  Although.  Although along with that there were the other women, just as she’d been with other men.  He hadn’t thought she’d care, given that she’d been with Demming or Davidson at the time.  He wonders idly why she’d split up with Demming, and when.  She’d been single when he’d come back, but then things with Gina had been okay and he hadn’t exactly been given the idea that she’d missed him.  Water under the bridge, now.

What’s changed?  He thinks hard, takes a long drink, hoping that the caffeine will help.  What’s he done differently, these couple of weeks, that has at least meant that Kate has progressed to encouragement?  Gone walking with her, gone to the range, and bars, with her; held her through the flashbacks.  Doesn’t seem enough, somehow.  Two shattering rows, where for the first time ever he’d said what he really thought, and watched her walk away – and not let her.  _He went after her_.  That’s what he’d done differently.  Been honest, and then been there.

So why’s she insecure about that now?  More to the point, why does she feel she has to give him an out, make it clear he doesn’t have to do what she tells him?  He doesn’t.  It’s not like they’re at a crime scene, where she’s clearly the boss.  He’d been worried, before, that if he upset her she’d walk away, but her encouragement has effectively removed that, and surely his reaction to her encouragement has shown her that he wants to be around?  He just doesn’t get it.  But he’s got far enough.  He was honest, and he stayed.  So if he keeps staying, but keeps being honest, that’s his best chance.  Especially, he realises, the _honest_ piece.  He doesn’t want to be a doormat.  He’s done enough of that.  He’ll argue, if he needs to.  Before he can explore that thought any further, a flicked glance at his watch tells him it’s time to go.

* * *

 

“I thought about what you said.”  Dr Burke produces a professionally interested expression as Mr Castle sits down.  Maybe this session will be a little less frustrating than Detective Beckett’s, which had dealt with substantially less than half of the required areas.  At least Mr Castle is incapable of extended silence or repressed emotions. It is certainly unusual to have both patients on the same day: in fact he is certain that he had instructed his staff to ensure that did not happen; and he is not sure he likes it.  His tolerance for their mutually miscommunicative behaviour requires replenished between their sessions. His migraine after trying to disentangle their issues, without either one of them present, had lasted over twelve hours.

“And what have you discovered, Rick?”  Mr Castle is clearly excited by his own cleverness.  He is, Dr Burke reflects, a textbook example of Peter Pan: immature, annoyingly self-confident – and courageous in the face of adversity.  Of course, he is also trying to grow up.  Even so, it would be a pity were he to lose all of these characteristics.  Mr Castle is, as a whole, a very charming man, and Detective Beckett is clearly more than just charmed.

“We were walking.  In between the days we go to the range” – Dr Burke fails to preserve his professional face for the first time in many years.  Castle stops.  “Didn’t you know?  Kate persuaded Espo – Detective Esposito – to let her into the range, a few days ago.”

Dr Burke utterly fails to re-establish his composure.  “Detective Beckett went to a shooting range?” he says weakly, unable for the first time in professional memory to control his voice.

“Yes.”  Dr Burke abruptly wonders why he bothers trying to assist his patients.  He has provided Detective Beckett with substantial help, which had, he thought, been succeeding, and then she has committed an act so profoundly stupid and potentially damaging that all his work may have been wasted.  Had she discussed it with him, he would have dissuaded her for another few days.  He considers the timing, and calculates that Detective Beckett must have gone to the range immediately after their session four days ago.  He considers further, and realises that she had been no more damaged this morning than at that session; and in fact has made some progress.  Dr Burke postpones that thought for later consideration.  No matter how much he would like to extract this story from Mr Castle, Mr Castle has taken the time to analyse matters and deserves to be allowed to explain himself.

“You said – why did I alter my behaviour and why has it succeeded?  Well, when we were walking yesterdayKate was unhappy about re-evaluation and it sounded like she was really insecure.  Which is silly because she’ll never _not_ be a good cop.  And later I started thinking that she might be – have been – insecure before, about other things.  Like asking for help, like we discussed before.  And then I thought, well, I didn’t just back off this time round, I stayed.  So I think she felt a bit more secure this time, that I wasn’t going away.  Though I’m sure she didn’t actually consciously think that.  And in the end, on the way here, I thought that maybe she’s just been unsure all the time about me because I never pushed for anything if she was blocking me off after I got into the precinct.” Castle runs out of breath.

Dr Burke takes a moment to disentangle Mr Castle’s somewhat incoherent explanation.  It seems that he has, indeed, come to an important conclusion.  Finally, the application of some intelligence as opposed to emotional outbursts.  Dr Burke had been certain that Mr Castle must be relatively intelligent, despite the contrary evidence from his dealings with Detective Beckett.

“Rick, you appear to be saying that Detective Beckett is now aware that she can rely upon you.  What other evidence do you have that this might now be the case, when it was not before?”

Castle doesn’t wholly like that question.  Evidence of the situation now is nice, and thinking about it makes him feel good.  Unfortunately, thinking about the reasons Kate might have been insecure about him before, and might still be, does not.  He summons up his nerve.

“Before… I always backed off.  If she was upset, or cross, or …anything.  I didn’t let her see what I thought.  So when it looked like she was attracted to someone else, I didn’t do anything about it.  I just found someone else that I could show off and pretended it didn’t matter. I suppose she thought that proved that I wasn’t serious.”

“When in fact, Rick, you were hiding how serious you were.  Why?”

“She wouldn’t have believed me, then.  She didn’t see what I was doing.  She was angry when I looked into her mother’s case, but all I wanted to do was help and show her I wasn’t just a playboy: I could do something for her.  And then I put up the money to try to trap the man who killed her mother, but she had to shoot him – killed him - and never got answers and I think she was so upset by that that she never really wanted to think what was going on, and I didn’t want her to be upset more.  And other things.  I went to LA with her, when her training officer was killed.”

“Rick, you are discussing all your actions, which indeed all point in a consistent direction.  Did you, at any point, talk openly to Detective Beckett?”

Castle comes up short.  “No…”

“In other words, your actions and your words were not aligned.”  Light dawns.

“She believed my words.  She’s always only believed my words.  It’s always been about the words – she read all my books and that was about the words.  But this time it’s all the same.  What I said and what I did.”  Mr Castle looks delighted.  Were Dr Burke given to hyperbole, he would have said that Mr Castle suddenly blazed.  “She can believe in both.  So she’s more secure with me.  That’s why she’s suddenly so much closer.”

“Closer?”

“At the range, the first time, she had a flashback.  A really, really bad one.”  Dr Burke preserves his countenance, on this occasion.  He considers that Detective Beckett’s recklessness had been amply punished.  “And ever since that she’s been …er… making it clear that she wants me around.”  Castle thinks that his phrasing is suitably vague.  He’s still considering last night, and earlier.  Happily.  Even if it finished far too soon.

“So, Rick, what have you learned from this exercise?”

Castle simply says, “Be honest.”  Dr Burke mentally celebrates.  At last one of his patients has succeeded in achieving enlightenment.  However, there is a further step to be taken.

“Now, based on that realisation, and all the other matters we have discussed in these sessions, please consider why Detective Beckett has consistently isolated herself from you specifically, whenever she has been hurt.”

More thinking, but this time everything falls into place, as soon as he remembers a phrase Kate had used.  _Nikki Heat, perfect supercop_.  “She only heard the words.  She only read the words.  She felt she had to be Nikki in front of me, and Nikki doesn’t have any real weaknesses.  Kate thinks she does: and every time she hit one she ran away, so I didn’t see it.  Because she thought I would walk if she couldn’t be perfect.  She thought she couldn’t control whether I stayed or went.”  He stops, looking back to the beginning, starts again.  “But she could, because Captain Montgomery could have kicked me out any time.  He’d never have put up with me upsetting his star detective.”  And then he thinks _oh shit perfect supercop means no scars._   Hell.  Back to that. Back to the problems that his whole stupid initial lie has brought him.

“Mmm.  Rick, please state, without evasion, why you have never honestly admitted your feelings to Detective Beckett.”  Dr Burke does not often take such a direct approach.  However, Detective Beckett’s session had roused some suspicions as to the status of her dealings with Mr Castle, and Mr Castle’s evasive wording concerning Detective Beckett being _closer_ has confirmed them.  Dr Burke has no intention of letting his intensive work with these patients be damaged simply because they are giving in to their physical impulses rather earlier than he thinks would have been ideal.

Castle wriggles uncomfortably in his chair.  This is very much sent-to-the-principal’s-office time.  He really wishes that Dr Burke was less clever.  If he ever has to do this again, he’s going to find someone he can out-think.  What?  He’s never, ever doing this again.

“Because I didn’t think she’d… I thought she’d…. I was scared.”

Dr Burke looks sympathetic.  “Scared, Rick?”

“Scared she wouldn’t feel the same.  And I only realised she really did the minute before she got shot.  Before…”

“Mmm?” It’s gently interrogative, inviting Castle to pour out all his hopes and fears and thoughts.

“Before that I was sure she felt more.  Every so often things would happen and I thought she’d realise, but she never did.  Or never admitted it.  We never talked about anything.  We saved each other’s lives, often enough, and we never talked about it.  We kissed, just once, and we never, ever mentioned it again.  Kate never talks about things.”  Dr Burke can sympathise with that statement.  Even in therapy, Detective Beckett does not indulge in unnecessary, or indeed necessary, conversation.  “So I didn’t either.  I didn’t want to upset her.”

“Why not, Rick?”

He gives up any thought of concealment, of pretending he had different reasons.

“I thought she’d send me away.  Even if I got to stay at the precinct, it wouldn’t have been what I wanted if she wouldn’t work with me.  I didn’t want to leave her.  I love her too much.”

“You had not told her that.”  It’s not a question.

“I was scared she wouldn’t feel the same.”  Dr Burke has never regretted medical confidentiality more.  He could wholly relieve Mr Castle’s evident pain if he were not bound by the ethical principles of doctor-patient confidentiality.

“And then I did tell her but she was dying.  And then…  she was so still and small and silent, in ICU; and then she just ran away.  Pushed me away and ran away.  Even though she’d heard me.”

“Do you know why she did that?”  Dr Burke knows, of course.  That had been part of Detective Beckett’s initial therapy session.  They have not returned to the subject, as it has been clear for some time that Mr Castle is no longer a trigger for Detective Beckett’s flashbacks.  It appears, from what both patients have revealed, that he may be a solution.

“She said – or implied, I don’t remember – that I triggered flashbacks, in the hospital.  And then even if she hadn’t, it was obvious, because she would only look at me for an instant.”  His mouth twists, remembering.  “She said she couldn’t deal with all of us worrying.  Hated the dependence.”  He can see her still, spitting her resentment out, the whole horrifying scene vivid in his memory.  “Hated having to be grateful.  Somehow she thought we wouldn’t worry, if she left.”

Dr Burke listens with interest.  He has, of course, heard Detective Beckett’s version of this episode.  It had, he recalls, been considerably shorter and less evocative.

“She told me that she’d died again, and again, and again, every time she had a flashback.  I only had to watch her die, she said.  She had to do it, in 3-D with surround sound and no off switch.”  He remembers her words very precisely.  He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forget them.  “So I said I’d be her friend.  I thought she needed a friend.  She remembered what I’d said when she was dying.  But it was obvious she couldn’t deal with any of it.  She couldn’t even look at me, most of the time.  I’d do anything to help her, get her back to who she was.  It’s the first time she ever needed me.”


	46. He's scared he'll blow our minds

“Is that really true, Rick?”

Castle stops and thinks.  “No…” he says slowly.  “That’s not right.  It’s the first time she ever admitted she needed me.  She needed me, sometimes, before.”  He thinks of a freezer, of a crazed people trafficker, of a bomb, of an airplane hangar.  Of his hands pressing down with bright crimson leaking through his fingers and on to hard green grass under a harsh blue sky.

“Ah.  Why is that so important?”  Dr Burke is intrigued to see how far Mr Castle can progress.  There is still more than a quarter of this session available, and Mr Castle has come exceedingly close to resolving many of his issues.

“Because she never asked for help, before.  We talked about this.” Mr Castle sounds indignant, as if that should be obvious.  “She never showed any weakness at all, just ran away.  We just discussed that.”  Suddenly Mr Castle appears to have a revelation. “I get it!  She really, honestly, trusts me!”  Unfortunately, this pleasing conclusion, which is entirely correct, does not seem to last long.  Mr Castle’s face has fallen.  “But that can’t be right.”

“Why do you say that, Rick?”

“Because she doesn’t.  She’s still so insecure about me.  She thinks I’ll be put off by her scars.”  Dr Burke very carefully does not ask how Mr Castle knows that.  He suspects it has much to do with Mr Castle’s comment relating to Detective Beckett being _closer_.   Of course, Detective Beckett’s unhappiness about her scars had been evident from her letters.  It seems she has not changed her view.  But Mr Castle has not finished.

“She keeps trying to give me an out.  Not because she wants me to go, but – I think she thinks I want to go, and somehow need her permission.  Which is stupid.  I’ve dealt with quite enough clingy wannabe girlfriends to be able to get out of anything I want to.” 

Dr Burke sees the rich, arrogant, womanising celebrity whom popular gossip would have Mr Castle be; a facet of his personality which has failed to feature previously.  Dr Burke believes that he understands Detective Beckett’s actions, with, of course, the benefit of having seen her letters.  Detective Beckett is ensuring that Mr Castle is made fully aware that he is able to leave, no matter how much she wants him to stay.  Indeed, she is deliberately not allowing him to see how much she wants him to stay, presumably in an effort not to bias his decision.  Dr Burke regrets medical confidentiality with renewed emphasis.

Dr Burke really must address her insecurity in relation to Mr Castle, again, at Detective Beckett’s next session.  The scars, on the other hand, may be safely left for a short time.  In that period, either Detective Beckett will have addressed the more important issue, in which case there will be time to deal with the effect of the scars, or Mr Castle will have convinced Detective Beckett that he is unaffected by them.  Dr Burke is perfectly well aware of how Mr Castle is likely to try to achieve that.  Talking, honestly or otherwise, is unlikely to be the major feature of that discussion.

“Mmm.  Why should she do that?”

“I have no idea.  If I had any idea how Kate thought, I wouldn’t be here, would I?  I’d be able to sort it out with her.”  Mr Castle is clearly annoyed that he does not comprehend.  Unfortunately, Dr Burke is not able to help him with that: Mr Castle has to reach the conclusions, with only guidance from Dr Burke, on his own.  And time is up.  However, Mr Castle is making rapid progress, and it appears that matters are also improving between them, which is especially pleasing to Dr Burke’s romantic side.  Dr Burke does wonder what new issue will impede the progress of his patients at their respective next sessions.  Surely even this dysfunctional couple must come to the end of their problems eventually?  He reminds himself that they are making, separately, substantial progress, and makes a mental note to consider whether a joint session would eventually be helpful.  It would certainly _not_ assist now.

* * *

 

When seven-thirty rolls around Kate is stepping into the Old Haunt, eager to see Ryan and Esposito and especially eager to hear what they’ve got for her.  She can hardly wait to be trading banter, sorting evidence, _catching killers_.  Back on the job. 

She swings down the steps, dressed as if she were in the precinct, button down, dress pants, high heels clacking.  She’s becoming Detective Beckett with every step.

Ryan and Esposito are in a booth swigging beer and chomping fries when they hear the very familiar rhythm and cadence of Beckett’s walk.  Definitely _Beckett’s_ walk.  They look up and sure enough, that’s their boss back.  They give each other a look of extreme relief, quickly wiped – wouldn’t want Beckett seeing that – and greet her with enthusiasm, only a small part of which relates to having help with their over-heavy case load.

“Yo, Beckett.”  Ryan gestures at a still-chilled beer on the table.

“Thanks, Ryan.”  Beckett takes a long drink and smiles her normal, cool, sardonic smile.  “What you guys got for me?  I hear you want a long lunch break every day and that’s why you’re outsourcing.  Why me, though?  Thought the US outsourced to India.”

“Yeah.  Long lunch break.  Su-ure.  We’ll start with sleep.  Coupla hours of that would be nice.  Not like some people lounging around all day eating chocolate and getting fat and lazy.”

Beckett growls, just like she’d have done months ago.  “Wanna go running, Ryan?  I can make you cry uncle before I’m even breathing hard.”  There’s a glint in her eye that makes Ryan believe her.

“That’s okay, Beckett.  I’ll pass.”  He retires from the competition, defeated.  It’s all very normal.  But Beckett’s already moving on.

“So what’ve you got for me?  C’mon, spill.”  She wants to get into a case.  Okay, she hasn’t seen the corpse, spoken to the witnesses, grilled Lanie, but it’s a case.  It’s being a cop again.  Espo pulls a file out of his backpack and Beckett has a hard job not to rip it out his hands.  However, that would ruin her cool-cop reputation – as if it hadn’t been shredded in front of Espo in the range – so she waits for Espo to stretch across the table with it and when it’s in her hands does her best not to look as if someone’s flung her a fortune in diamonds.  She doesn’t speak for the next fifteen minutes, devouring each page, then flicking back and forward, chewing her lip in concentration.  Esposito looks at Ryan, nods at Beckett, and mutters, “Beckett’s back.”  Ryan just nods.

Finally Beckett looks up.  “This all we got?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.  Where’s the timeline?  Get me some paper.  We need a timeline, and it’s no use if it’s back on my murder board.”  There’s force and assertiveness in her voice and posture.

Ryan snaps to.  A moment later, a pad of paper appears, courtesy of the bar staff, who unbeknownst to Beckett have very recently been re-instructed to provide her with anything she might need. 

“Right.  Time of death?” 

Five minutes later the timeline, as far as possible, has been recreated on three pieces of paper held together with beer mats.  Esposito and Ryan are feeling rather as if they’ve been run over by an elephant.  Not that Beckett’s an elephant - if anything she’s still rather thin – but she’s running at full speed and nothing is going to get in her way.  The whipcrack of authority slices through every word and gesture.  _This_ is who she is.

“What about this space?  Where was he?  Who’d he see?  Phone records?”

“Here.  Didn’t make any calls.”

“So here” – she puts a fry on the timeline to mark the spot – “he was coming out the office in Midtown, on to Park Avenue, just south of Grand Central, heading for the Flatiron. Why’d he go that way?”

“Co-workers say he said he was goin’ home.”

“South-east of Grand Central’s a bit pricy for an office drone.  Where was home?”

Esposito and Ryan look at each other.  They’d not picked this up yet, what with the other six cases that had dropped.

“Er…Upper Westside.”

Beckett just _looks_ at them.  “He wasn’t going home, then.  Not immediately.  So where was he going?  Girlfriend?  Bar?  Where’s his bank records?  Did he take any money out?  If he did we’ll pick him up on the security cameras at the ATM, get a better idea where he was.”

Esposito’s frantically making notes on one of the sheets of paper.  “We requested bank records.  Haven’t got them yet.”  Beckett throws them another _look_.

“So kick some ass, Espo.  This isn’t a lending library where you get three weeks to read something.”  She goes back to the time line, stops, flicks through the file, glares at the pages.

“Something’s missing.  Who’d he live with?”

“Lived alone.  No wife, no relatives.  Too old for roommates.”

“So whose are these other prints?”

Everybody looks blankly at the page.  Esposito makes another note.

An hour and a half later the boys are looking shell-shocked, the third round of beer is on the table – well, for the boys, Beckett’s still only just on her second – and there’s a list of follow-ups two pages long in Esposito’s rapid scrawl.  Beckett is blazing.  There are sparks in her eyes and she’s so fired up you could light candles from her.  Espo can almost see the electricity around her.  He thinks to himself that Castle really does have Beckett all worked out.  He looks up and sees Castle, just arrived, staring at Beckett with a look on his face that Espo’s never seen before.  Everything Espo and Ryan had first sniggered about, and later sympathised with, is burnt away.  Beckett may be blazing, but Castle is looking at her like she’s the flame that set his whole world alight.  Esposito looks away.  It’s too much to watch.

She’s back.  All the fractures annealed in the fire of doing her job.  Just this small step back into it, and her whole personality has lit up like a searchlight.  It’s amazing, magnificent – and unbelievably hot.  He was first attracted by the way she did her job, and however nice it is to have softer, needs-protection Kate, bad-ass Beckett is what he loves the most.  And here she is, right in front of him, power, poise, drive and personality at pile-driver force, no limits, no stopping.  He’s transfixed by the tsunami of her. 

It’s just as well he can’t move for those first few seconds, because all his instincts – he has no thoughts left: they’ve all been drowned, flattened, destroyed – are screaming for him to pull her out the booth, kiss hell out her, and get her to the nearest bed, or wall, before he explodes.  _Mine._

He takes a number of deep breaths and tries to control himself.  By the time he throws out a casual _Hey_ distributed evenly among the three of them he’s nearly managed it.  Beckett flicks a glance up, smiles, returns to the sheets of paper that he notices with considerable amusement have a timeline with fries marking what he presumes to be significant points.  He considers eating one, and then on looking at Beckett’s focused expression decides that he doesn’t want to die tonight.

“I want a murder board,” she says exasperatedly.  “This is too small.  I can’t _see_.”  She looks around as if an eight-foot-by-six white board and coloured markers would magically appear out of nowhere.

“Maybe if you weren’t using fried potatoes to mark your line you’d be able to see better?”  There’s a frustrated growl, with sharp teeth in it.  Castle slides into the booth next to Beckett and peers at the grease stained paper.

“What happened?”

“He got killed, Castle.  You know, that’s what we investigate?  Murders?”  She goes back to the papers.  “What was he doing, going into the Flatiron, if he lived up in the Westside?”

“Maybe he was meeting his contact.”  Beckett flips round and gives him the _oh-god-here-we-go_ look.

“No CIA.”  He pouts.  “No agents, no spies, no Men in Black.”  She stops.  Castle opens his mouth.  “No aliens,” she snaps, faster than he can verbalise.

“But he could be an agent,” Castle whines.  “Why else would he go the opposite direction to where he lived.  He’s putting the enemy agents off the scent, so they don’t find his secret computer.”

“The guy was an accountant.  Not an agent.  Ryan!”  Ryan comes to full attention.  “What was the vic’s job?  Exactly?”

Ryan thinks for a moment.  Beckett’s tapping her nails impatiently on the table.  “He was a forensic accountant.”  Beckett processes, microsecond-fast.

“And you didn’t think that was the most relevant fact?”  Ryan looks bemused.  “Forensic accountants aren’t just beancounters.  They investigate financial fraud.  We need to know what he was working on.  First thing tomorrow, you get on to his co-workers and boss again and drag it out of them.  If there’s any problem, see if you can get a warrant.  ‘S not likely, but try.  Espo!”  The snap in her tone hits his spinal cord like she was his old staff sergeant.  “You follow the money.  See what’s in his account.  What went in, what went out.  We’ll pick that up in the morning.”

There’s a sudden, horrible pause.  Neither Ryan nor Esposito wants to point out that Beckett won’t be in the precinct in the morning.  As the meaning of the silence registers, the fire dies.

“Oh.”

“We can meet you at lunchtime, and again tomorrow night, Beckett.”  She looks a little happier.

“Okay.  Same time, same place, tomorrow night.  Same case?  Or d’you wanna bring another one while you’re chasing down these leads, if there’s nothing popping?”  But Castle can hear the disappointment under the Beckett tone.  He slides his hand round on to her waist, out of view: small reassurance.

Beckett’s disappointment has put a damper on the evening, and although Ryan and Esposito spend a reasonable amount of time telling her all the precinct gossip to try and distract her it doesn’t really work.  She’d been so pleased to be back in harness that she’d completely forgotten she wasn’t.  Fairly soon she’s thinking that it’s time to go.  Anyway, it’s nearly ten-thirty, and she’s had a long day.  She starts making _need to get home_ noises and shifting in her seat, and soon everyone is packing up.

Outside the bar, Esposito and Ryan are watching Castle escort – there is really no other word for it – Beckett in the direction of her apartment.  They don’t know why he bothers pretending: it’s absolutely obvious to two trained detectives that the instant he – or Beckett – thinks that they can’t see them any more Castle’s arm will be round her.

“What’s going on there, Espo?”  Ryan thinks that he’s missed something.  There have been a whole lot of undercurrents between Esposito and Castle that he wants explained.

“Not sure.  But Beckett went to the range and it all went tits-up in a hurry.  So I get Castle in and next thing I know is he’s telling me to get the piece outta there and Beckett’s completely out of it.”  Esposito leaves it at that.  He doesn’t like the memory of Beckett catatonic.  Reminds him too much of other times and places, years ago.  “Had lunch with her, coupla days ago.  She wants to be back.”

“Not met Gates yet, has she?” Ryan says dryly.  “She might change her mind.  Hey – has anyone told her Castle’s been kicked out?”

“Dunno.  Suppose he musta.”

Ryan’s mind gets back to the earlier comment.  “How’s Beckett gonna get back if she can’t shoot?”

Esposito winces.  He’s trying not to think about how hard Beckett’s pushing herself.  He’s _also_ trying not to think about how much she’s relying on Castle at the range, and how she’s going to deal the first time she has to draw if he’s not there.

“She’s been in twice since.  Haven’t heard that it’s been bad.  She must be getting better.”  He’s reassuring himself at least as much as Ryan when he continues, “She’ll be ready.  Won’t accept anything less of herself.”

* * *

 

Castle hasn’t bothered asking Beckett if she wants company, preferring to ask forgiveness rather than seek permission.  All he has to do is think of the way she was when he walked into the Old Haunt to be sure that he’s walking her home.  And certainly kissing her goodnight.  Oh yes.  When they turn the corner and he’s sure that Ryan and Esposito can’t see, he slings his arm round her, adapting effortlessly to the change of alignment that her heels produce, and curls her in, hand on her hip.  She sighs softly and accepts the movement.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, guess so.  I just wish I’d be in tomorrow, chasing it down.  We’ve got something.  I can feel it.  I need to be on it.  I don’t want to hear about it second-hand.”

Castle wonders if this had really been a good idea.  Seeing Beckett in full forward momentum had been magnificent, but now she sounds tired, drained, and not a little dispirited.

“But you enjoyed it?”

“While it lasted.  I want to be back on the job.  I’m tired of being benched.”  Her heels click down emphatically in counterpoint.  “And…” 

“And?”  He can tell that the next words are not going to be good.

“And it reminded me that I still can’t shoot straight.  Or alone.”  She droops, power and poise all gone.  “I’ve got to be able to shoot.”  He knows what she’s about to ask before she opens her mouth.  “Will you take me to your range, tomorrow?”  He’d half-expected her to say _now_ , when she’d started.

“Beckett – Kate -  are you sure that’s such a good plan?”  She looks so miserable, it’s hard to refuse her anything.  “Look.  Why don’t we go for a walk as usual, then after you’ve seen the boys tomorrow night if you still want to go into the range I’ll take you in then.  Not likely to be anyone much around, that late.”  He grins.  “Of course, it means you can’t have any beer.”  He thinks that the unformed noise of irritation might translate as _who cares about beer, I wanna be fixed._

Kate knows that if Castle won’t take her, she won’t be at any range tomorrow.  She’s quite sure that Esposito won’t allow her in, especially if he knows that Castle won’t be there.  And much as she’s desperate, following this evening, to get back to it, she’s not stupid enough to try to go in alone.  That’s going to be even more of a mistake than doing it the first time.  By the time she’s finished that unpleasant thought, they’re at her building, and Castle’s holding the door for her and ushering her into the elevator.


	47. I'm invited in for coffee

“Coffee, Castle?” 

It’s an automatic invitation.  Castle, having accompanied Kate home in the hope of just such an invitation, is not inclined to refuse.  Kate, he thinks, needs reassurance.  And following that, he very much wants to show her how much he appreciates Detective Beckett.  In oh, _so_ many ways.  So he politely closes the door behind him and pretends even more politely that he really doesn’t notice that the instant the lock clicked and shut them into quiet, dangerous privacy the suppressed sexual tension from the previous three years had snapped into place again, just like last night.  

He resists temptation for all of two minutes: only long enough for Kate to kick her heels off, take the few steps into the kitchen and turn back to ask him about coffee again.

“No thanks.  I don’t want coffee.  Yet.”  He smiles slowly, and it’s unbearably seductive.  “I want a kiss instead.”  He prowls closer.  That’s convenient.  Kate would rather like a kiss too.  She gives him an inviting smile, watches his eyes darken and improves the moment by biting gently on her bottom lip.  Two rapid strides later her teeth have been replaced by Castle’s hot, demanding mouth and she’s being pressed between the counter and his big body.  It’s exactly what she wants.  She’s tired, tonight, of being treated as if she needs protected, as if she’s fragile and breakable, ( _even if you still are_ , says the nasty little truthful voice in her head) she wants to be reminded that she can still be Beckett; still, soon, return to being the strong woman she used to be. 

She fights back with teeth and tongue, equal partner, not inclined to submit to his strength when she knows exactly how to bring him to weakness.  She nips at his lip, glories in the gasp, the sudden surprise that allows her to advance, to conquer.  For these moments, she’s forgetting her fears, perfectly confident of who and what she is.  He’s not slow to recognise her need, kissing her deeply, pressure making her shift to accommodate the hard frame against her.  When she slides against him Castle groans, hoists her up to sit on the counter and – pulls back?  No.  No.  That’s not on the to-do-list. 

“Beckett, what the hell are we doing?”  Isn’t it obvious?  Does he need a map?  She hadn’t thought he would, but maybe he’s out of practice.  Beckett reaches for his shoulders to bring him back to her, but finds herself forestalled by Castle’s considerably longer reach, hands on her waist holding her at a distance.

He looks very serious.  “We can’t do this.”  She doesn’t think he’s conscious of the fact that his fingers are stroking gently at her waist.  She is.  Very much so.  She drags her mind off the insidious effects of his touch and looks questioningly at him.

“Last night… we needed to stop.  Even if…”  He doesn’t want to say _you were upset about me seeing the scars._   “Anyway.  We need to stop now, before…”

“Before it all goes wrong again?  Before I freak out?”  She’s sounding tired again, defeated by the truth.

“Before I can’t stop.”  There’s a deeply shocked silence.

“Can’t stop?”  She doesn’t believe that.  There is no way on God’s green earth that Castle _wouldn’t_ stop the instant he was asked.  She knows that as surely as she knows her own name.

“Well.  No.”  She whispers out a sigh of relief.  “But it would be a lot harder than I’d like.”  She snickers at the – for once entirely unintentional – double entendre.  It breaks the strain and Castle realises what he’s said and grins too.

“That could have been better phrased, couldn’t it?”

“You’re the one who uses words for a living.”

His wide grin softens into a smile and, flashpoint temporarily averted, steps in and cossets her against his broad bulk, content simply to hold her in close.  Kate rests her head on his shoulder.  Castle’s right.  Last night she had stopped them, likely for the same reasons he has now.  Perhaps it’s time for a little less action, a little more conversation.

She lifts her head, straightens up and kisses him softly on the forehead; benediction.  “I’ll make some coffee.  We need to talk.”  Castle steps back minimally to allow her to slide down off the counter, presses her nearer for just an instant, no pressure, no demands; only, simply, affection; reflected back to him from the depths in her eyes.

All the careful constructs that they’ve used all this time to pretend and hide and lie to each other, in words and actions and by inference, need to be dealt with, she thinks.  Maybe they can start to tear some of them down, clear to bedrock and build a firm foundation.  Not, yet, more.  More requires sharing her letters, and she can hardly bear to read them herself, still less expose the naked emotion they contain to another.  Not yet.

She finds her coffeepot and creamer, precisely measuring out the coffee to make it perfectly; some small control in the face of a conversation over which she feels she will have no control at all.  Not that Castle is likely to be in any better position.

Eventually, however, she can’t hide in the process of coffee making any longer.  It’s no consolation to see that Castle looks almost as nervous as she is sure she does: still so much less nervous than she feels.  He’s not sitting on the couch, but on her armchair, catty-corner to where she usually sits, where he can see her, full face, where she can see him.  No hiding of expressions, for either of them.  No hiding.

No ability to start, either.  Both of them are looking anywhere but at each other, fingers, floors, feet, walls, windows all seemingly more interesting than words.  Safer.  Once this starts, they have no option but to follow where it will lead: the tyranny of truth-telling.  Kate tries to form words in her head, wanting to survey her sentences before they spill over, but nothing is making any sense at all.  But it’s she who ran away upstate, caused this latest fissure in the thin ice of their relationship, so it ought to be she who begins.

“I said – before – I went away because I couldn’t cope with all your hurt and worry, and because of the flashbacks.  That’s true.  But it wasn’t everything.”  She takes a scratched, clawing breath, knots her fingers together.  “I didn’t believe everyone wouldn’t give up on me.”  Another harsh, scraped intake.  “I didn’t think … didn’t think… I didn’t think the team would want to be there when I was such a coward, couldn’t do the job, needed all that help.  I didn’t think I was enough.”  It’s not a great explanation: almost as rushed and confused as her thinking had been.  She carries on.  “So I went upstate because I didn’t think anyone would really care.  But… but the shrink and later on Espo said different.”

Castle manages not to wince at the first sentence, and then further has to hide a sharp pang of emotion – jealousy? – that somehow Espo’s managed to help where he, Castle, wasn’t even asked.  She’s looking past him, through the wall, eyes fixed on the horizon, the vanishing point.  “The shrink made me see that it was all about the past.  Everyone I might have relied on left, all my life.  So I expected it.  Didn’t expect anything else.  Espo” – she looks full at Castle, as if she’s seen straight into his unworthy thoughts – “It had to be Espo.  You know we’ve worked together for as long as he’s been at the Twelfth.  He’s a cop.  He could tell me straight, no complications.”  Ah.  He sees that.  He’s hardly unbiased, and she knows it.  Still, it takes a moment for the sting to diminish.  “Espo said the team’s got my back.  I just need to let them.”  She remembers what else Esposito had said, backs away from that for now.  This isn’t about them, yet.  They – she – need to deal with the underlying issues before there’s any point in trying to work out the joint ones.

Soft, cloaking silence falls.  She’s done, for now.  Castle’s considering what truth to start with; Kate’s started so much further back than he can.  He has no history beyond the day she pulled him in for questioning, the day his life changed.  While he’s thinking, she speaks again.

“I heard – I remember – everything.  You already know that: I told you.”  He remembers her telling him: bitterness and vitriol, trying to drive him away before – she thought – he’d walk away anyway.  She’s just told him why: confirmed the reasoning that he’d worked out with Dr Burke, confirmed why she wouldn’t, couldn’t, ask for help.  “I was – am – broken.  You – all of you – looked at me like I was _fragile_.  Like I’d break if you touched me.”  She takes a gasp of air. 

“I was _already_ broken.  Dying breaks you, Castle.”  Her voice falls away, diminuendo.  “Death breaks you.” 

But he doesn’t think her final anguished, quiet words are meant for him.  She’s not only talking about her own death, but another death, long ago.  _The past is another country.  They do things differently there_.  Except she didn’t, couldn’t.  She ran away from that earlier death, hid in being a cop, and found salvation of a sort in that vocation.  No wonder she has to be the best cop she can be.  No wonder she’s pushing so hard, so ravaged by the thought she might not be able to go back, so desperate to recover she’s risking relapse with every visit to the range.  _I see you, Kate._

He’d seen it, the day he’d found out she’d run from her own death, run upstate: _What drives Kate Beckett_ , he’d thought, and answered _Being the best damn Homicide cop in New York.  Or possibly the world._   Now he sees the cause, and the corollary: honouring her mother’s memory in the only way she can, with every case she solves, because she’s never solved that death.  No wonder she didn’t back off, back down, listen to him.  He can’t compete with that.  No-one could compete with that.  He realises, could weep with the knowledge, that until she comes to terms with the effects of her mother’s death there is no chance for them to build a solid relationship.  There can be no future till she’s dealt with her past.  _I see you, Kate.  Do you see you, yet?_

So this is where truth leads.  Read it and weep.

“Breaks can be mended,” he says softly, “with time.”  It drops into the quiet, no ripple disturbing the air afterward.  There’s a long, mourning silence.  It’s his turn to add his counterweight of sorrow to this wheel of mutual misery.

“I lied to you.  For almost all the time I’ve known you, I’ve lied to you.”  Her eyes are wide and dark and horrified.  He can’t meet them, stares down at the floor.  Raw honesty is the hardest thing he’s ever done. 

“It was never about the books.  It was never about Nikki Heat, after the first days.  It’s always been you.  I was too scared to say anything, hid everything behind Nikki.”  Self-contempt laces his words.  “I didn’t dare.  Didn’t dare tell the truth.  You think _you’re_  a coward, Kate?  Because you couldn’t deal with _dying_?  Don’t think many people manage to deal with that.  I couldn’t even deal with telling the truth, till I watched you die.  Even in the hospital, I couldn’t tell you the truth.  What does that make me?” 

He stands, can’t stay still under her gaze, ranges about the room.  Silence is absolute behind him.

“I didn’t argue, cross you, in case you sent me away.  I backed off, every time I should have said something.  Because it was easier, less frightening.  Because then I wouldn’t have to face it if you didn’t want me.  I couldn’t tell you until you were dying, and I’d run out of time, and you couldn’t answer so you wouldn’t be able to tell me you didn’t feel the same.  _What does that make me, Kate?_ ”

He slumps back into the chair, emptied.  When she speaks, he waits for his dismissal.

“It makes you just like me.  You spent three years lying with your words and telling the truth with your actions.  I spent three years ignoring the evidence that was right in front of me by only listening to your words.   I thought I couldn’t get rid of you, you thought I could throw you out any time I liked.  It took both of us to make this crazy, fucked-up mess, Castle.  There’s plenty blame to go around.”  She hesitates.  She’d thought, moments ago, it was too early for this.   But they’ve got there, anyway, and it’s too late to stop.

“I knew you felt more.  Ever since Lockwood, I was pretty much sure that there was more to it.”  His head snaps up.  “I just couldn’t believe in it, till Montgomery was shot.  Why would a millionaire mystery writer want an ordinary Homicide cop, except for the books?  And then I was all ready to step forward, ask you to stand with me, _be together_ , and then I was shot.”  Tears are running down her face. 

“It was all ruined.  I was all ruined.  I pushed you away, then ran away because I couldn’t have borne to watch you walk away once you knew how broken I was. I couldn’t believe you’d want to stay, but you would have, even though you wouldn’t want to, to try to fix me.  So I made you go, so you wouldn’t have to realise you couldn’t fix me and start to resent me, and I wouldn’t have to see it happen.  I thought it would hurt you less if I did it.”  She can’t speak any more, her throat closed on her grief, the moment the bullet had shattered all her hopes vivid in her mind.

So this is where truth leads: tears and agony, no bandage for the wounds they’ve caused each other.  _Truth hurts_ , someone once said.  No-one said how much: like dying all over again.  Sitting in the same room, but two separate worlds, grieving separately for what they might have been together.  Four months’ worth of crying, the weeping that she’d hardly ever done, in that time when she was mourning her own death.  No celebrations for this resurrection, no joy in this new life. 

This is what honesty feels like.  Death.

She turns away, blots her tears.  Too much truth for either of them to bear, too much to answer.  How do you answer when it’s the end of your world?  She twists partway back round.

“You have to be the blindest, most infuriating, most idiotically self-reliant person I have ever met in my whole entire life.”  Castle sounds half-angry, half-despairing, bitterly amused.  “I wrote that, you know.  I wrote you letters, all summer, from the moment you didn’t die.  I never posted any of them.”  He slams his mouth shut, like he hadn’t meant to say any of that.  She turns away again, not able to deal with that now. 

“Only you could think that we wouldn’t be there for you.  Only you could possibly be _stupid_ enough to think that you were _protecting_ your friends by cutting us all off.  Only you could possibly, _ever_ , try to face down PTSD by yourself.”  He’s ranging round the apartment again, incapable of staying still, exuding adrenaline and annoyance.

“Only you, Kate, could think that it would hurt less to send me away rather than wait to see what I felt.”  He sounds, suddenly, defeated.  “How could you think so little of us?  Of me?”  He stops pacing, stops talking, looks piercingly at her, thinks about what she’s just said. _I didn’t think I was enough._   “You didn’t, did you.”  It’s not a question.  There’s a note of realisation in his voice.  “You didn’t think so little of us.  You thought so much of us.  You thought so little of _you_.  I know this story.”  He roams the space, putting it all together in his head.

“You couldn’t bear to accept anything you thought you didn’t earn.  You thought that no-one could like you, or care for you, or respect you, or love you” – his voice breaks on that – “if you weren’t _earning_ it, every moment of every day, by being the perfect cop.  And when you got shot, you thought you weren’t earning it, thought you had no credit to draw on, and it all came tumbling down.  So you sent us all away, so you wouldn’t have to watch us leave.  Or worse – no? I know how you think; you’d have hated this more – watch us stay, resenting you.”  Saying it doesn’t make it hurt less.  She’s crying silently, continuously, as he speaks through the constriction in his throat.

“And you topped the whole mess off by convincing yourself _again_ that I couldn’t have meant a single word I said, because you had spent three years believing my _lies_ about being there for Nikki Heat and around three days actually believing the truth.  As soon as you thought you couldn’t be the perfect supercop any more, you went straight back to Ground Zero because you didn’t think anyone could want you.  And I went straight back to not telling you the truth because I could convince myself _again_ I didn’t think you were ready to hear it.  And I hid my feelings and you ran away.  Just like we always did.”  He exhales wearily. 

“Just like always.”

He’s reached her crumpled body, sits down next to her, takes her into his arms, feels her own arms slide around him, their separate misery melding into one. 

“How did we screw this up so badly, Kate?”


	48. Shot down over stormy seas

Her hair is damp, but that’s fair enough, so is Castle’s shirt.  They’re still huddled together on the couch, clinging to each other as if they’re on the only life-raft in this stormy sea of truth.  It’s all been too much, too soon, too raw: neither of them used to unvarnished honesty.  And yet, for the first time, here they are, still together, facing their emotional crisis as a pair.  No hiding, no running.

So this is where truth leads them.  To each other.

They’re still curled together in now-companionable silence some time later, his head on her hair, her cheek against his chest, the backwash of emotions dissipating into the still air.  It’s late, almost midnight, city noise diminished to a low hum, their undrunk coffee  abandoned and cold on the table.  Not everything’s been said, not everything resolved – by no means; nothing could be that simple, that they should resolve matters in one late-night outpouring; but, as with that previous overspill of emotion and too-long suppressed pain, a fortnight ago, also here in this now quiet, peaceful room, they’ve moved forward, broken down another blockage.

Kate’s stirring in his arms, stretching out of her tucked-in position, unwrapping her arms from around his midriff.  When Castle looks down at her, though it’s clear she’s wrung out from released emotion, it’s also obvious that there’s something more on her mind.

“You said you wrote letters that you didn’t post, all summer?”  Ah.  He’d rather hoped that had slipped past her, in among the other revelations.  But she’s chewing her lip thoughtfully, nervously.  “I… I wrote letters to you, too.  I didn’t send them.”  Ah.  Um.  Here’s the first test of this new accommodation, and his courage.  He may die, before the next two minutes are up.

“I know.”  Well, _that_ certainly got a reaction.  She’s spiked into full alert, frantic, wide eyes skittering across his face, pulls back out his grip. 

“ _How_ do you know?”  _Honesty, Rick.  Honesty is the only way to go._   He gathers up some nerve.

“Do you remember, after the bookstore, I came by?”  Kate nods, slowly.  He thinks it’s only agreement to the event.  “A door slammed” – he resists the temptation to fire his retaliation in first by saying _while you were lying to me_ – “and you had a flashback.  As bad as in the range, that first time.”  Her face has fallen into its professional mask.  He can’t read her reactions at all.  “I got you inside, made sure you were comfortable on this couch.  I waited for a bit, then I got bored just sitting, so I stirred your stroganoff – I’d make it differently, by the way, more pepper, less paprika” – he recognises that he’s trying to deflect the coming, surely inevitable storm, and returns to his confession – “and you were still out of it so I went to find a book.  And…” - he takes a deep breath – “I saw a letter addressed to me.  So I read it.  And then I went home.”

“I see.”  Kate doesn’t say anything else.  She remembers that letter, just as she remembers all the letters that she wrote, etched into her memory along with the bullet and the pain.  It… isn’t the worst one he could have read, by a long shot.

“I’m sorry.  I knew I shouldn’t, but I did.”  He stops.  He still can’t detect anything on her face.  He has to finish this, because it can’t be any worse if he tells the rest of it.  “And…”

“You did it again, Castle?”  There’s bite in that comment.  He winces, and knows he deserves it.  Whatever her faults, and surely there is enough of that on both sides, he knew reading the second letter was wrong, and did it anyway.

“When I stopped by after the book signing, that first time after we met at the coffee bar on Clinton.  You left another letter on the table.  So…”

“So you took the opportunity to read that one too.  While I was making coffee.  Guess you really are a speed reader.”  She’s entirely expressionless, toneless, and he thinks this must be the end: he’s betrayed her trust and her fierce integrity simply will not let it pass.

“Yes.  I’m sorry, Kate.”

“And when you took me home after the range, did you read the rest, once you’d put me to bed?  Search my desk?  You had the chance.”

“No.  I didn’t.  It – wouldn’t have been fair.  I couldn’t… show you mine.  Not yet.”

And then she says something so completely unexpected that he thinks he must have misheard, because surely this is a miracle that he really does not deserve.

“I’m not ready for you to read the others.  Not yet.  Maybe I’ll never be.”  He stares at her, mouth agape, left, for once, utterly wordless.  But there’s something else, one last thing to tell her, to clear his conscience and allow them to start clean.

“I’m seeing the same therapist you are.”  Her porcelain-still face shatters.

“You are doing _what?_ ”

“Um… when I read that letter you mentioned his name so I looked him up and then I phoned him – I promise I never asked him anything at all about your treatment and he wouldn’t have said anything anyway because he’s got the best poker face and voice I’ve ever seen in my life - even better than yours in interrogation -  and he’s never mentioned you once and” –

“He’s never mentioned you either,” Kate says dryly.  “Maybe neither of us made much of an impression.  Or maybe you’ve never stopped talking to draw breath to let him speak.” 

Castle splutters. “Anyway I wanted to know if I could see you without upsetting you or triggering more flashbacks and he never gave me a straight answer, just psych speak.  But when I realised I needed to talk to someone I thought of him.”  Kate’s looking at him as if he’s turned green.

“ _You_ realised you needed therapy?”  She can’t resist it, even in all this tension.  “I’ve waited three years for you to realise you need therapy.”  She collapses in laughter at the look on his face, though truthfully it’s at least as much the release of all her stress than amusement.  It takes a while for her to stop, and by the time she does it’s a lot closer to hysteria than humour.

Castle’s still sitting on the couch, watching in stupefied amazement laced with concern as Kate gradually stops her choking, sobbing laughter.  He’s utterly unsure why he’s still alive, still less why Kate seems to have forgiven him his transgressions.  When she finally falls silent, he moves to embrace her again, but she forestalls him with a gesture, expression wholly serious.  Whatever she is about to say, she’s deeply unsure how it will be received.

“Truth for truth, Castle.”  That doesn’t necessarily sound like a good start.  “There’s things I still need to work through with the therapist.”  Definitely not a good start.  “But you’re not the only one who’s been hiding their feelings.”  His jaw flaps open.  Is she saying… Is Kate really saying…

“I want to be with you.  Can we try and make it - us - work?”  She is.  She really is.  She really, really, _really_ is.  He can’t answer, for all his words.  He sweeps her into him, kissing her as if it’s the first time, for once letting his actions speak for him.  But still, even in the tide of joy he doesn’t forget her insecurity, her scars, doesn’t let his hands rove near them.

Finally, a place for them to stand.

* * *

 

“Perhaps we should have tried talking a little sooner,” Castle suggests tentatively, unwilling to reopen the wounds they’ve patched.

“Perhaps we should have tried _thinking_ , or therapy, sooner.  Are you seriously trying to tell me that either one of us would have talked honestly without that?”

He shakes his head.  They’ve only got this far because they’ve both, separately, been forced into doing a lot of thinking.  Somehow, though, he doesn’t think it’s quite done yet.

“Kate?”

“Mmm?”  She sounds halfway to asleep, no wonder, since it’s nearing one.

“If I promise to try to be honest about how I feel – whether it’s angry or upset or happy or whatever it is – will you promise to try not to run away without at least saying you need space first?  Because I don’t think we can make this work if we don’t agree on that.  Trying, I mean.  Succeeding might be a bit hopeful.  Otherwise, the first time anything goes wrong – and with our record that’s likely to be tomorrow – we’ll fall apart again.”

She knows that’s a fair deal.  She tries, he tries.  “Okay.  But on conditions.”  He looks confused.

“If I do go off, you come after me.”  She thinks about that.  “Maybe after a safe length of time to let me calm down, if I’m angry.  And if I think you’re not being honest, I’ll call you on it.”  She slides further into the crook of his arm, takes his other hand firmly, shakes.

“Deal?”

“Deal.”      

“ ‘S late.  ‘S time you went home.  I’ll see you tomorrow.”  She smiles mischievously.   “Do you want a goodnight kiss?”

He growls, and swoops down on her.  “That was a stupid question.”

“Basic interrogation technique.  Never ask a question you don’t know the answer to.”  She turns her face up, eyes dancing, and it’s all he needs.  He’s taken possession in an instant, sure enough of where she stands to be harder, stronger, to make demands, to show that when she’s ready, so will he be.  Not that he thinks she’s ever doubted that.

* * *

 

The next day is unpleasantly wet and miserable, the September sunshine clearly taking its own vacation.  Kate ingests the first coffee and considers the soothing stretch of running versus the nasty feeling of cold rain trickling down her neck.  Somehow her tops never quite fit snugly enough to stop the occasional drop sneaking in. Right now, coffee – hot, strong, flavourful – seems the better bet.  Besides, she wants to think.  Running clears her mind, but when she’s lost in the purely physical she won’t apply the focus that she should.  Maybe by the time she’s done thinking, the weather will have improved enough that she can let all the thinking bed down.  It’s still quite early, she’s plenty time.

So, thinking.  Hmm.  Start, once again, with facts.  She’s certainly got more of those now.  One: Castle meant it.  That’s – mindblowing.  Still.  So had she.  Two: He’s meant it since a lot earlier than she’d ever imagined.  Three: even if he shouldn’t have read those two letters, it’s not fatal.  It might even have been helpful.  Four: he’s in therapy too.  That’s exceedingly interesting.  She briefly detours to consider her next session with Dr Burke.  He has some answers to provide, she thinks.  Five, or last: time to get over the scars.

She puts her cup down with an extremely decisive click and goes back to her bedroom, to the full length mirror in her wardrobe, puts all the lights on against the gloom of the rainy day – and so that she can see herself clearly.  She hasn’t looked closely – at all – at the scars since she returned to the city; she’s dressed in half-light and skimmed past them any other time, simply assuming that they are as ugly, unpleasant, as the day she left the cabin.  She tugs her t-shirt off before she can reconsider.

The thin surgical scar down her side is almost invisible, she notices first.  She starts there.  It’s faded to a pale line, that no-one would see unless they were really looking.  Or… really close.  That’s encouraging.  Nothing there, for searching fingers to catch on.  One taboo down.  One, much larger, to go.  She steps closer to the mirror, looks full at the knot at the plunge of her bra.  To her surprise, it’s not the violently red, ropy carbuncle she remembers.  It’s paler, still obvious, but not as angry.  Not pleasant, but not the wholesale detractant she remembers.  She’s been magnifying it in her mind all this time, instead of simply looking at the evidence.  Again, not looking at the facts.  She really needs to start applying detective skills in the rest of her life.  Each time she’s done that, under Dr Burke’s gentle guidance, she’s found out something helpful.  Not always pleasant, but certainly helpful.

Hmm.  Maybe this isn’t as bad as she thought.  She runs a fingertip over it, testing.  It… doesn’t feel like skin.  It feels more like nubbly leather.  Not great, but not repulsive.  And make-up would hide it, if she had a mind to wear something… a little more provocative, for any reason.  For every reason.

She pulls her t-shirt back on and considers the advantages of a button down later on.  Or that top she’d worn two nights ago.  Funny, how some things affect people differently.  Mmm.  Yes.  _That_ top.  One matter considered, dealt with, and – possibly – resolved. If _she_ can stand it, there won’t be any difficulty in finding out what he thinks.

Facts established, time for a little deductive reasoning.  She’s supposed to be good at that.  If Castle means it – and she is, now, sure of that – and she feels the same – and she has been sure of how she feels for months, and probably much longer if she’d ever admitted it to herself – then it’s another reason to get fixed.  Fast.  She needs to find the reason she was so insecure.  What had Castle said?  _You thought you had to earn it by being the perfect cop._   What had Esposito said?  _So you screwed up.  So?  We’ve all screwed up._   Hm.  Why had she felt she needed to be perfect, never make a mistake, never show weakness?  She sifts back through all the thinking and understanding that she’s done, all the questions Dr Burke has asked, what Esposito, Lanie, Castle have said, starts at the beginning.  She’d wondered why Dr Burke had wanted to start so far back, after her second session.  Surely, surely this can’t be another result of her mother’s murder? 

Pause.  Rewind.  Never show weakness, because everyone who should have helped left.  She’s got that bit.  Move on.  Something’s tugging at the edges of her mind from last night.  She leaves it alone.  If she ignores it, it’ll get annoyed and come out to demand attention.  So she meanders to the kitchen to make another coffee, and turns her mind to the appalling weather and the lack of any possibility of a pleasant walk.   As if on cue, before she’s made the drink, her phone beeps.

_No walk today?  Why not come over instead?_

She’s not convinced that’s a good plan.  After the last meeting with Alexis, she’s not really up for either seeing Castle’s daughter, which would undoubtedly be tense, or his mother, which would undoubtedly be over-dramatic.  And loud.  While she’s perfectly confident, this side of last night, to hold her own position without volume or histrionics, she doesn’t really feel it’s fair on Castle to witness, be part of, or referee an argument between his family and her.

 _Wouldn’t want to interrupt your family time_ , she sends back.

Castle reads it with momentary confusion.  What family time?  It’s not the weekend, and it’s not evening.  Light dawns. 

 _No-one’s in but me.  No-one will be in till afternoon._   That should do.  He hadn’t thought of that, but he supposes that Kate would prefer not to be exposed to any more highly emotional scenes.  There’d been enough of that last night.

 _Okay._ He can see the smile she’d acquired before the next words.  _Coffee on? Not coming if there’s no coffee._

Half an hour later she’s knocking on the door.  Security knows to let her up, no need for checking.  He’d reminded them, recently.  He thinks they were laughing at him, after he walked away.  It’s possible that he’d been… emphatic.  He flicks the coffee machine on before opening the door.  Kate greets him with a smile and breathes in the scent of caffeine with a deep, satisfied breath.  She’s half a step past him, aiming for the kitchen, when he catches her shoulders and stops her determined stride, swinging her round to face him and deftly divesting her of her jacket on the way, tossing it on to a chair.

“No hello, Kate?”  He looms over her, noticing that she’s still wearing flats more often than not.  She’ll need to start wearing heels some more, or he’ll have a crick in his neck.

“But it’s coffee, Castle.”  As if he should know that coffee trumps _hello_.  She essays a move in the direction of the kitchen.  He tugs her gently back round and in, tips her face up and kisses her firmly.

“ _That’s_ how you say hello.”

“Really?”  And Kate kisses him extremely thoroughly and with considerably more enthusiasm than he’d expected before lunchtime.  “I think _that’s_ how you say hello.  Do try to keep up, Castle.”  She saunters off in the direction of coffee, leaving him breathless and brainless.  Well.  Matters do seem to have moved on some way in the last twenty-four hours.  Maybe honesty really is the best policy.  He trots after Kate to the kitchen and the coffee.

Castle’s top-of-the-range coffee maker (what else?) delivers excellent coffee in short order, and when they’re comfortably cuddled up in the study, as if they did this every day, (he hopes they’ll do this every day, or at least most days) physical contentment is assured.  At least as far as it can be given Kate’s insecurity about the scars and the fact that it’s before lunchtime.  He remembers rather nervously that he had something he thought he ought to say: a nagging prick of conscience driving him on.

“Kate.”  She runs an assessing, interrogative glance over him, undoubtedly searching for clues in his expression.  “If… if you want, I’ll give you the letters I wrote you but didn’t send.  Seeing as I read two of yours.”    On balance, he shouldn’t have said that just after she’d taken a slug of coffee.  She’s choking and coughing and red-faced and teary-eyed.  Oops.  He didn’t mean to kill her.  He pats her ineffectively on the back until she stops spluttering and begins to breathe normally again.

“Do you think next time you have an idea you could wait till I’m not drinking my coffee?” Kate growls.  “At least if you want to survive it.”  Castle decides that pointing out that she couldn’t take down a tethered guinea pig while she’s choking like that is unlikely to be a good survival strategy and retires while still unhurt.

“Now.  Did you just offer to share your letters?”

“Yes.  If you want.”  She’s sorely tempted.  But.  But she’s not ready to share hers, and even if he’s read two of them they don’t cover the worst of it.  She doesn’t think that knowing what he’s thinking is fair, if she won’t expose her thoughts.

“Not yet.  Not till I’m ready to share mine.  And I’m not ready now, so let’s not screw this up another way round.”  She pauses.  “I’m fairly sure that your letters weren’t meant for publication.  Mine certainly weren’t.  So until we’re both ready to deal with another dose of raw truth it might be safer not to.  It’s all a bit fragile, right now.  Let’s not drop it to see if it’ll bounce.”


	49. Take my hand, we're halfway there

Kate takes the subway home without thinking about it and only realises that she’s done it without hesitation or even a hint of a startle when she’s making herself lunch.  Another milestone.  She’s disposing of the last of a salad (it’s time to be healthy: her diet once she’s back in the precinct will be moderately dreadful and consist exclusively of E-numbers and MSG) when the missing memory pops.

 _Death breaks you_ , she’d said, not really meaning to say it out loud at all.  She’d thought she meant her own death.  Now she wonders whether she had subconsciously meant her mother’s.  It had broken her life: sent her from Stanford and law to NYU and then the Academy: broken her father.  She’d thought it hadn’t – quite – broken her.  But.  She’d trained the hardest, studied the most, graduated the Academy at the top.  Worked her ass off to prove herself, in uniform and in Vice, worked yet harder in Homicide.  Every case a personal insult, every case a puzzle to be solved.  Each unsolved case eating at her, until she’d been ordered to put them behind her.  Some nights, she still goes to archives and looks at them, just in case experience shows her something she missed as a younger cop.  Homicide has been her life, her obsession, her salvation.

Her addiction.

Alcohol for her father, homicide for her.  Both burying their pain, obliterating thoughts.  Her father, though, had recognised his addiction.  She never has, till now.  No twelve step program for an addiction to solving murders.  Except that Castle walked into her life three years ago and provided another point of view.  Made her angry, and irritated, made her laugh, and bite back, and sometimes cry.

Made her love.

Back to her thoughts.  Why did she need to be perfect?  She sees her own fractured personality laid out, rearranges the pieces.  It’s simple, really.  She can’t solve her mother’s murder, so she has to make up for it by solving everyone else’s.  Has to be perfect, to make up for that one, enormous imperfection.  Follow the trail.  If you think you have to be perfect… then logically being shown that you’re imperfect, in the unforgiving prism of death, is going to be difficult to deal with.  She sits and thinks about that for some time, processing the realisation.  Esposito had called it, though, called her on it.  She has to do her best, can’t ever do less, be less; but that’s not the same, necessarily, as being perfect.  _I get knocked down, but I get up again_.  A rather better principle, perhaps, than _I get knocked down so I run away and hide._   Finally, she sees.  Tomorrow’s discussion with Dr Burke should be interesting.  Not least because apart from her conclusions, she does intend to ask him a few pointed questions.  She smiles, not nicely, at the thought.  Dr Burke has been very helpful, and she is sure that she would not have been ready to move forward with Castle without him, but she intends that he should be aware that he’s trodden very close to the line.  Not, it seems, over it.  Just.  Clearly Dr Burke has a future as a tightrope walker.

It’s still grey and dreary, but it’s stopped raining.  She’s had enough of revelations.  Time to go for a long, soothing run, before she misses the chance.  When she’s finished with that, she’ll be ready to see the boys again tonight.  She can hardly wait to see what they’ve got for her: whether it’s the same case with new information or a new case to go with.  She sets off with renewed energy.

* * *

 

Ryan and Esposito reach the Old Haunt a little before Beckett, not accidentally.  They feel the need to soften the edges of the day somewhat, with the involvement of a medicinal beer or two, before their next exposure to Beckett’s driving energy and need to get back to the job.  It’s put them on the right side of Captain Gates, but it’s exhausting, being cops all day at full stretch and then Beckett forcing them to be cops all evening too.  Still, if she can manage to sort the shooting part out she’ll be back in a bit less than a fortnight, and they’ll technically be back to full strength.  Not that it’ll be the same without Castle.  His weird – and he is, they agree, very weird at times – brand of insane theories simply works.  And of course, he and Beckett make up their team.  Now there’s a thing.

“What’s goin’ on between Beckett and Castle, Espo?  You’ve seen more of them than me.”

Esposito hesitates.  Technically, he doesn’t know anything.  But he’d seen Castle’s face, last night, and he’s seen Beckett lose it in the range, and they’d both seen what happened in that other bar.  “Not sure.  But I think they’re maybe together.”

“Bout time.  Pay up.”

“What?”

“Pay up.  Your bet washed out three months ago.  Mine was that they’d get together after the summer.  You owe me fifty.  Hand it over.”  Espo grumbles darkly. 

“I’m not sure you’ve won yet.  Not sure they’re _together_ together.  An’ I’m not going to ask them, either.”  Ryan nods emphatically.  That’s a short route off a very high cliff.  Though detective abilities tells him that if they’re not, then it’s close.  He really wants that fifty off Esposito.  He’s got his eye on a necklace for Jenny, and the cash would come in handy.  He changes the subject.

“What’re we going to give Beckett?  We couldn’t get a warrant, and bank records didn’t come through even though I gave ‘em hell.  She won’t be happy.  We’re working through the co-workers but they keep their stuff closer to the vest than Beckett, an’ I didn’t think that was possible.  Never seen so many shut mouths.  I hate the words _client confidentiality_.”

“I brought that Central Park drowning.  Best I could do.  Remember?  That one that supposedly drowned hopped up on crack, ‘cept he never dealt and tox showed nothing.  Autopsy did, though.  Lanie found a puncture, gave us half a chance at finding the weapon.  Might as well set Beckett on that.” 

Ryan sighs.  “Think she’ll be as hard-ass as yesterday?”

“Naw,” drawls Esposito.  “She’ll be worse.”  Ryan slumps down. 

“Can’t I just go home now?”

“Naw.  I need backup.  I’m not taking full-force Beckett.  An’ Castle won’t be here till later again.  I checked.  Hoping he’d take some of the pain.”

“Hoping who’d take some of what pain?”  says Beckett from behind Esposito.  Both men jump.

“Er.. the Red Sox in the next game.  Don’t reckon they’ll win again till the end of 2015.”

Beckett looks disbelieving, but lets it pass.  She’s barely sat down with her drink before she’s firing questions at them.  Twenty minutes in they’re reeling and she’s drained them of every possibility for moving the dead beancounter case along.

“Okay, so everything that can be done for now is being done.  Right.  What else have you got for me?”

Esposito lays out the not-drowned victim for her.  It’s a repeat of the previous evening.  By the time Castle rolls in Ryan and Esposito are clutching at almost any straw to stop the fusillade of questions and comments and orders, so seeing him in the bar is a lifeline.

“Yo, Castle.”

“Hey.”  But Castle’s not sitting down.  It’s about this point that Ryan notices something.

“Beckett, why are you drinking Coke?”

“Going to the range after this.”  Esposito looks at her very hard.

“How you gonna do that?  I’m not getting you in tonight.  Thought we’d agreed tomorrow.”

“We did, and I’ll see you there at ten-thirty just as I said, with Castle.  But I’m not going to the NYPD range now.  Castle’s taking me to his.”  Esposito chokes.

“Castle’s range?  What the hell?”  He glares at Castle.  “Since when have _you_ been a marksman?”

Castle smirks nastily.  It’s not often he gets a chance to look masculine in front of Esposito, who exudes macho like it’s going out of style.  “I’ve shot since college.  Can’t match you” – no point in trading targets with an ex-sniper – “but I can outshoot Beckett.”  Esposito’s momentarily distracted from the bigger picture.

“That true, Beckett?”

She looks mildly disgusted.  “Probably.”

“Probably, Beckett?  You know I can.”

“Only on your day, Castle.  It was only once.” 

Castle suddenly has an idea.  “Beckett, if you can outpoint me at either range before re-evaluation I’ll buy you dinner at the best restaurant in town.  If not, you can buy me dinner.  Or cook it, your choice.”  He knows she’s competitive to a fault.  If this doesn’t fetch her, nothing will.  Her green eyes spark.

“You’re on.”  He only realises this might have been a mistake when she carries right on over his murmured agreement.  “But you’ve got to give me a fair chance, so you can take me into your range every time I ask you” – he just bets that’ll be every day, whether she’s been at her own or not – “till I go for re-eval.”  He thinks he might just have been played.  Beckett’s got that _gotcha_ look.  She may not have set this up, but she wasn’t slow to take advantage.  Well.  She may have played him, but he’s not above being sneaky himself.  He starts planning the remains of this evening.  Shooting is going to be the least of her worries.

* * *

 

Castle’s range is very much like everything else of Castle’s, except his personality: rich, discreet, and quiet.  He’s clearly done some preparation: the staff have a service-adjusted Glock and clips ready, and Castle picks up a gun of his own – _in case you don’t need me, Beckett.  I could use some practice._   With a very heavy dose of _I’m not going to make this bet easy._   Even the booths are considerably more private than she’s used to.  At the precinct range, they’re pretty open.  Here, they’re accessed individually, and they’re lockable.  It doesn’t occur to Kate that this might be a problem until she hears the bolt snick behind her and she realises that she’s standing in a fairly small space, in absolute privacy, with Castle, and that on their previous outings to ranges the one thing that’s been constant is physical contact.  It _also_ occurs to her that wearing this top might not have been the brightest idea she could have had, if she wants to shoot.  As opposed, say, to wanting Castle to… _Stop._   _Later_.  She takes her coat off, hangs it up, and moves past Castle to load the Glock.

At least, that was the plan.  Castle takes one look at the top and does what he’s been waiting for a chance to do since they left the bar: pulls her into his arms and kisses her hard.  “You didn’t say hello, Kate.  Not polite.”  He looks suggestively at her.  He’s not disappointed.  But when she moves to kiss him – she’s wearing heels, he notices – he takes the opportunity to go marginally further than range etiquette normally permits, and slides a large hand over her back to hold her more firmly, a little closer, than before.  As she steps back her eyes are slightly hazy, but she’s not objecting.  Or killing him.

He could swear he hears her teeth grit as she loads her weapon, but it’s more fluid than two days ago, less shaky; and she doesn’t even ask for help in holding the gun.  Balancing Kate, however, is still required.  He’s not stupid enough to try any – well, encouragement – when she’s trying to shoot.  She needs to be better, and he won’t screw that up for her.  And today, again, it is better.  Three clips – all he’d ordered – are gone in something less than half an hour, and all of them are somewhere in the target.  There’s also been a lot less cuddling and reviewing, which from Castle’s viewpoint is less than welcome.  Still.  Progress.

“Do you want another three clips, Kate?”  She’s clearly thinking it over.  He can see her wanting to push on, move faster, do more, be better, be fixed.  So it’s surprising when she declines.

“No, I don’t think so.  It’s too late.  I won’t improve now.  I’ll see how I do tomorrow at the precinct range.”  She smiles up.  “Thanks for bringing me, Castle.  That’s been a real help.”   The smile acquires a delicately inviting edge.  “Want to see me home?”  Oh yes.  Definitely.  He takes a moment to text Alexis to tell her he won’t be home till late and will see her tomorrow after school.

The taxi ride is mercifully short, from Kate’s point of view.  The top has had a remarkably interesting effect on Castle.  He spends the ride with his arm round her, his fingertips drawing little patterns from her shoulder to just behind her ear, and she’s absolutely certain he’s noticed the small spot which makes her wriggle.  He’s certainly paying enough attention to it.  She’s happy to nestle into his arm all the way home: hold his other hand.  Unconsciously, she’s stroking her thumb over it.

By the time they’ve exited the elevator, Kate’s made a couple of decisions about the next few minutes.  One is that she should open a bottle of wine.  She feels she deserves a celebratory drink.  Her shooting may still be indifferent to bad, but she can hit a man.  The shock of a bullet of itself, wherever it hits, will stop most people.  For the first time she thinks that she’ll be ready, just over a week from now.  Tomorrow, she’ll do it without Castle holding her and see how she copes.

The second is that she intends to show Castle what _hello_ really means.  As far as she can manage.  So when she opens her door and shrugs off her coat without needing to do anything more than flex her shoulders, (which has the happy advantage of flexing all sorts of other areas in a way which is guaranteed to hold his full attention) allows him to step in afterwards and shed his own jacket; she then shuts the door behind him, pulls his head the short distance down and proceeds to take complete and thoroughly confident possession of his mouth.  When she’s finished, she lets him go and smiles in a leisurely fashion.

“Hello.”  That was entirely unfair.  He’s so surprised, he didn’t even get to answer, verbally or otherwise, until she’s halfway to the fridge and pulling out a bottle of decent-looking white.

“Glasses in that cupboard, unless you’d prefer coffee.”

Castle sneaks up behind her as quietly as he can and then makes sure he’s got one hand firmly on the bottle.  “I’d prefer you.”  He’s trapped her against the counter, ensures the bottle’s safely out the way – wouldn’t want to waste good wine – lifts her hair out the way and kisses the nape of her neck, working round gently to the spot he’d noticed earlier.  It has the same effect: she wriggles.  This time, though, the wriggle is rather more pronounced, and rather more … interestingly… tactile, given their relative positions. 

“Me?  I’m not a drink.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.  A good wine comes in a curved container” – he runs his hands round her hips and into her waist – “has a nice colour” – which is rising in her face – “has good legs” – that’s just unfair – “and most importantly tastes excellent.”  So he turns her round and kisses her, just to check. 

“Yes.  Definitely.  You.”  He swoops down again and takes her mouth in the same confident way she had dealt with him a moment ago.  She opens under his demands and makes several of her own, sliding both hands round his neck and into his hair to keep him in place.  It feels to Castle like she’s _encouraging_ him again, moving slightly against him in a rather unmistakable fashion.  He’s not slow to take the hint, one hand in her hair, keeping her head at the perfect angle for kissing her mouth, her jawline, back to that interesting spot that makes her wriggle; one hand gliding down her back over that top. 

Mmm.  Kate never does anything without a reason, and she knows exactly what he thought of that top.  He essays a tentative slide of his fingers under the bottom edge, and when she doesn’t freeze up as she had the previous time becomes bolder, searching out the warm skin at her waist and running hard fingertips lightly over it.  He knows where the surgical scar must be, but it’s so faint that he can barely feel it.  He leaves it – don’t push too hard, too soon – and slips his hand into the curve of her back where he can hold her firmly into him and show her precisely how he feels.  Her kisses become more frantic, harder, changing to nips and then soft wet kisses on his neck, dropping into the vee of his shirt and  _no that’s no fair Kate_ because he isn’t getting the same chance.  He growls at her, and when she stops and looks at him with mischief sparkling in her eyes he takes his chance, bends and kisses around her neck and behind her ear and then hoists her up to sit back on the counter just like the other time.  Except he doesn’t think they need to stop, yet.  Neither does Kate, by her reactions.  She’s wrapped her legs around his hips and is using them to hold him in  _oh yes Kate right there_ and this could shortly get embarrassing.

Kate is feeling good.  Better than good.  Castle is right where he ought to be and providing pressure just where she wants it most.  She tugs him in a little further and feels a sense of satisfaction when he groans.  It doesn’t take much for his kiss to stop being gentle and start being hard, hungry and possessive.  His hands are definitely possessive.    She begins to understand what he had meant about finding it difficult to stop.  She really doesn’t want to stop.  Doesn’t want him to stop.

So she doesn’t ask him to.


	50. Abide with me

Castle knows that they are fast approaching a point of no return.  Or at least, not without significant difficulty.  But he doesn’t want to stop, and it’s clear Kate doesn’t.  He hauls his mind out of the fog of arousal long enough to work out that there is one, albeit drastic, way of finding out if this is really going to happen or not.  He detaches his hand from Kate’s hair, lifts his head out of the kiss, runs his finger down over the surface of her  silky top, between her breasts, slowly, so that she can stop him any time she needs to, carefully watching her face, and down until he can feel a slight raised area.  Kate hasn’t said _stop_ , but there’s a tension in the air that wasn’t there a moment ago.  He thinks she’s pushing the limits of what she can put up with.  He stops, shifts back an inch, waits to see what will happen.    She doesn’t say anything.

Kate’s trying to make a decision about what she wants to happen next.  She doesn’t want to stop.  She doesn’t have to: she can think of quite a number of ways to give them both what they want without revealing her scars.  Or she can – bite the bullet, so to speak.  She’s come so far, in three weeks.  She won’t balk now.  She removes both hands from Castle, and swiftly, so she doesn’t lose her nerve, pulls her top off over her head. 

Castle has dreamed about Kate stripping in front of him for three years, and he has to say the reality exceeds his dreams in every way.  He’s so intent on her overall figure – which is mindbogglingly excellent - it takes him a minute to realise that she’s stiff and guarded.  He knows, has known since she was in hospital, how he should deal with this.  He dips his head, looks for a moment at the red, raised area which killed her, twice, and very deliberately kisses it.  He hears Kate’s indrawn breath, and comes back up to meet her eyes.  She looks like she’s about to cry, and then suddenly her face lights up.

“I _said_ I didn’t care about the scars, Kate.  I meant it.”  He pauses, to let that sink in.  And then he realises that Kate Beckett is sitting in front of him in her pants and a _very_ sexy lacy bra and he appears to be doing nothing about it.  She, on the other hand, has just undone the first button of his shirt and is moving down.  At that point he loses all ability to think.

Kate watches Castle’s expression turn from stupefied to soft to hungry and is therefore not one whit surprised when he pulls her hard against him and kisses her fiercely, lifts her up off the counter and simply carries her over to the couch, dropping down with her in his lap.  She’s most of the way through opening his shirt buttons, punctuated by little scrapes of her nails and soothing, laving kisses, when he catches her hands, and in one smooth move rearranges them both so she’s lying back and he’s slid off the couch so that he can touch and kiss and stroke all the way along her body just as he’s wanted to for all this time.  He runs one hand gently from throat downward, over the scar, not lingering there, nor yet avoiding it, down to the waistband of her pants, and pauses again.

“Is this what you want, Kate?”  He has to be sure.  He couldn’t bear it if, later, she thought that this was a mistake.

“I’m sure.”  She’s never been as sure of anything in her life as she is that this is the right time, and the right place, and the right person to stand with.

She looks at him and rolls her eyes.  “Did you miss the bit where I took my shirt off?  Or was that too subtle for you?”  She reaches up and slides his shirt off his shoulders.  “And now your shirt is off.”  She pauses, smiles seductively, sits up and watches his face fall, kisses him to take the expression away.  “I’m protected.”  She stands, pulls him up after her, kisses him again, hard.

 “Bedroom’s this way, Castle.”

He’d like to love her slowly, learn each dip and hollow, what she likes best, but she doesn’t seem inclined to wait.  They’re barely in her room when she’s attacking the buckle of his belt, the button at the top of his pants, his zip.  He answers her searching questions in kind, leaving her in her bra and matching panties.  It occurs to him that this is not an accident: that Kate had planned this, planned to seduce him – not that that would take much – to show him in actions what she can’t quite say in words.  But unlike her, she who spent so long only hearing his words, he knows to watch her actions, and understands the unspoken words behind them.  And these actions tell him very clearly how she feels.  He senses her emotion in every touch, in every look, in the curve of her mouth and the press of her hands and the heat of her body.  Most of all, in the depths of her eyes.

He pushes her gently down on to her bed and sits on the edge, content for this moment just to roam over her body with his eyes, absorbing everything, getting used to the idea that he’s really here, this is really happening: that this isn’t some dream that will be gone without a trace in the morning.  He reaches out and strokes the warm skin of her cheek, runs a careful finger over her lips, cups her face and leans over to kiss her.  She slides both hands around his neck and tugs, pulling him down over her.  It’s all he needs.  Soft and gentle changes to hard possession, firm touch stroking down over the silk of her underwear, finding the right pressure to make her wriggle, the deft flicks followed by little strokes to make her gasp.  She slips delicate fingers over his chest, scrapes just hard enough over the skin, carries on downward to peel off his boxers and then allows them both to touch and slide and play and finally she brings him over her and into her and it’s everything either of them could ever have wanted.

Afterward, they’re cuddled together, unwilling to let go, Kate’s head on Castle’s shoulder, both of them mostly asleep.  “Stay?”  she murmurs.  “I don’t want you to leave.”  He hears more in the soft, sleepy tone than he ever thought he would.  _I want you here, with me.  I trust you._ Even, possibly, _I love you._

“Sure,” he whispers.  He slips an arm under her neck and wraps her in as she snuggles back into him, soft and warm and affectionate.

* * *

 

When she wakes, to the unaccustomed warmth of a big body tucked around her, holding her close, she enjoys it for a while, then stretches cat-like and slips out his arms and out of bed to start the kettle, leaving Castle to sleep.  She’s half-way down her first mug when she hears him stir.

Castle knows this isn’t his own bed, but it always takes him time to wake up and realise where he is.  This, though, is definitely not a hotel, not a book tour, and… something’s missing.  Someone.  And on that thought he wakes up properly and realises that he’s in Kate’s bed but Kate is not.  For just an instant he panics, until he recognises the aroma of coffee and understands that she’s not run, not gone, not slept on the couch, nor have any of a dozen conspiracy theories that could have made her disappear in the night occurred.  She’s only gone to make coffee.  That’s okay.  He knew she was a morning person.  They can always go back to bed, after.  That’s a nice thought.  He falls out of bed and into the bathroom – it’s pretty and feminine too, and he spends a few moments investigating, learning a little more about her, only stopping when he decides that looking in the medicine cabinet is just a little stalkerish.  He puts on yesterday’s shirt and boxers and wanders out, following the enticing smell of coffee and the even more enticing thought of Kate.

Kate is, naturally, some way into her own coffee, but watching her curled up in her own apartment, swathed in a pretty, silky robe and very much with a rumpled, just-got-out-of-bed look is quite, quite different from bringing her coffee at the precinct.

“Staring is still creepy, Castle.”  He can’t help it, though.  Even the smile she’s giving him is of a completely different order to the one he’s used to when he brings her coffee.  He finds a mug – he’s swiftly getting used to her kitchen, the arrangement of her utensils, her crockery – and returns to the coffeepot on the table, and Kate on the couch.  He’s ridiculously and unreasonably relieved when she nestles into him as he sits down: this cuddlesome aspect of her personality still unexpected: perhaps it only appears within her apartment.  Outside, it hardly appears at all, unless she’s in the grip of flashback or startlement: it’s mainly he who initiates, needs to touch, to hold, to show publicly that he’s with her.  Another way she never asks for, verbalises, what she wants, or needs.

His hopeful fantasies of finishing coffee and then going back to bed are disappointed when Kate tells him that she’s got a nine a.m. appointment with Dr Burke. There’s a look in her eye that he recognises.  He usually sees it when some suspect is about to be pinioned on their evasions and delicately sliced into quivering ribbons.  Dr Burke, he thinks, isn’t going to have a clue what’s about to hit him.  He has a little thrill of – okay, unworthy – amusement at the thought.  Dr Burke has perhaps been just a little too clever for his own good, and he’s about to meet _Detective_ Beckett, not PTSD-sufferer Kate.  Castle would deeply love to be a fly on the wall for that session.  He could sell tickets, and make a fortune.  Still, there’s certainly time to … appreciate… Kate.  He takes her coffee cup away and kisses her and strokes her till she’s open and receptive and not thinking about coffee any more.  It seems she’s thinking about the shower.  He can deal with that.  Oh yes.

He decides, as he dresses, rather clumsily because mostly he’s paying attention to what Kate’s putting on – which he intends to take off, slowly and with considerable attention to detail, later – that showers have advantages.  Though his own shower has more space to investigate them.  He’ll need to introduce her to that.  And his bed.  Which means that he needs to inform – definitely not discuss with – his mother and Alexis of certain changes.  He doubts that anyone will be best friends – anyway, that would be (a) creepy and (b) detrimental to his mental and possibly physical health – but they can all at least preserve an adult level of civility.  He hopes.  Still, this is not going to be the most pleasant discussion he’s ever had with his family.  He can’t remember the last time he did something they fundamentally disagreed with.

* * *

“Kate, I know you and Alexis aren’t exactly, er, on the best of terms,” - she looks round at him from where she’s hunting out a pair of heels from the bottom of an extremely well-stocked wardrobe, and lifts an eyebrow – “but I want you to be able to come to the loft without feeling you’re unwelcome.  Well.  Um.  I mean obviously you’re always welcome from my point of view but I don’t want you to avoid coming because you don’t want to get between me and my family.”

“I have no intention of getting between you and your family, Castle,” Kate points out, coolly.

“Yes, but I want you to come home with me, too.”  He wiggles his eyebrows lasciviously.  “My shower’s bigger.  And the bed’s just as comfortable, and bigger too.  And” – he pauses, clearly leading up to the clinching argument – “you like my coffee-maker.  So I wanna tell them about us.  Enough that they know you’ll be around.”

Kate shrugs, unconvinced.  She’s not at all sure that this is going to be a good idea.  Still, it’s Castle’s family, and he has to deal with them.  It’s not up to her, and she certainly isn’t going to interfere.  If it doesn’t work, she doesn’t have to go to the loft.

* * *

 

Dr Burke observes immediately that there is a substantial difference in Detective Beckett’s demeanour this morning.  She appears considerably more focused, and very much less insecure.  He deduces that she and Mr Castle have settled some more of their issues.  He hopes, although he expects otherwise, that they have succeeded in talking before indulging their evident physical attraction.  He wonders dispiritedly which problem will derail Detective Beckett’s progress today: her inability to discuss her issues with Mr Castle, possibly punctuated by her insecurity about the scars; or the, as yet uncovered, residual trauma of her mother’s murder. 

He is therefore entirely taken by surprise when Detective Beckett sits forward decisively, pins him to the back of his chair with a biting glare, and speaks in a voice he has not heretofore heard.

“I’d like to discuss professional ethics, Dr Burke.” 

He has the unpleasant sensation of the ground being cut from under his feet.  He had known that Detective Beckett was very successful at her profession: he had, as is standard, received her file as part of her treatment.  He had not, however, been aware of the methods she might employ.  For the first time since he had begun treating her, he observes the true Detective Beckett.  He might have been professionally pleased about that, were it not also wholly apparent that in some way he is now the target of her abilities.  Her tone is perfectly pitched to command absolute obedience.  Even with all his years of psychiatric practice behind him he is not capable of ignoring it.  He muses, briefly, that Mr Castle is clearly a man of considerable strength of personality.  He would have to be, to be in any way a match for Detective Beckett as she truly is.

“Perhaps you would like to explain to me, Dr Burke, the ethics of treating two separate patients in a joint fashion, without disclosing to each of them the potential conflict of interest in so doing?”  Ah.  Mr Castle and Detective Beckett have clearly conducted a conversation.  Dr Burke experiences the extremely uncomfortable sensation of being skewered, as if he were a butterfly pinned to a specimen board.  He is entirely unused to being questioned.  The word _interrogated_ occurs to him, and does not ameliorate his discomfort in any way whatsoever.  However, he is not an inexperienced practitioner.

“To what do you refer, Kate?  You must be aware that I treat many patients, and professional ethics require that I do not discuss one patient with another.”  He becomes aware that this was not a satisfactory response.  It is really quite astonishing, the focused intent in her gaze.  He had not been aware that it was possible to be intimidated in such a complete fashion, so quickly.  He has an intense urge to keep talking, to provide more acceptable answers.  He controls it, with some effort.  This is really most unpleasant.

“Don’t prevaricate.”  That is a snap.  Quite remarkable.  It appears to have a direct connection to his spinal cord, as he has straightened up without even realising it.  “You have been treating both Castle and me, and while Castle knew that you were seeing me, I didn’t know you were seeing Castle.  I do not appreciate being the only person who didn’t know that.  Nor am I impressed that you, presumably, find it acceptable to use what you learn from one of us to treat the other.”

“I have neither discussed your treatment with Mr Castle, nor his with you.  Nor do I intend to, unless and until a joint session appears indicated.”  It seems that this was the correct answer.  The level of intimidation in the room diminishes marginally.

Dr Burke considers that he is still in control of this session.  Probably.  Detective Beckett is still regarding him with an expression which indicates that she is contemplating further interrogation.  He is really quite unreasonably relieved when she desists.  He has not enjoyed the last few minutes in the slightest.  He hopes she cannot see his mental sigh of relief.  The expression in her eyes, however, makes it perfectly clear that she not only has detected it (a Freudian slip which he regrets instantly) but that she expected it.  He acquires a renewed appreciation for Mr Castle’s courage.  His relationship with Detective Beckett must contain certain elements which would be common to attempting to maintain a relationship with a tiger.  Detective Beckett is terrifying.  He tries to regain some initiative, although he is now pessimistically sure that he has wholly lost that, not just for this session but, almost certainly, for the foreseeable future.

“I think that _I’ll_ decide whether a joint session is indicated, Dr Burke.”  Kate decides to take a small amount of pity on him.  He looks suitably cowed.  “In discussion with Castle.”

The look of flabbergasted amazement on Dr Burke’s shattered professional countenance is worth every painful instant of her therapy sessions to date.  Although he recovers swiftly, and returns to his normal smooth, receptive expression, he couldn’t hide the effect that statement had on him. 

There is a short silence, for once not owing to her issues, whilst Dr Burke recollects his plan for today’s session and recovers his composure.  He would prefer to do so with the assistance of strong alcohol, but that will have to wait.  Really, a most unpleasant start to the day.

“So” – he stumbles on a desire to say _Detective Beckett_ in a tone of terrified respect, and resolves never to commit a crime, or indeed the most trivial misdemeanour, in case Detective Beckett is the investigating officer – “Kate, what would you like to discuss today?”

“My mother.”


	51. Welcome to the new age

Kate suppresses the desire to interrogate Dr Burke further.  She’s had her fun, and she thinks that he is now thoroughly aware of her irritation with his actions.

“I did some thinking.  We discussed abandonment issues.  We discussed what Espo had said.  And then Castle and I talked.”  Dr Burke is now able to conceal his surprise at that statement.  He had not expected them to reach that stage for another week or more.  “And after that I thought – why did I think I needed to be perfect?”

Dr Burke is pleased.  Detective Beckett has reached a core issue: her need for perfection.  He is even more pleased a moment later.

“And then I realised.  I had to solve every case, be the best” – her face twists – “because I couldn’t solve my mother’s case, no matter how hard I tried.  It was the only thing I could do.  I gave her case everything I had, but it was never enough.  I even died for it, and it still wasn’t enough.  All the time, if I couldn’t solve her case I could at least give others the closure I couldn’t have.  So I had to do it perfectly, because otherwise I’d be letting her down.”  She runs down.  Dr Burke observes the same control, lack of release of emotional tension, that he had noted in a previous session.

“What have you learned, Kate?”

“I need to do my best.  I can’t do less.  But if it’s not perfect, it doesn’t mean I’ve failed, or that the team won’t support me.”

“Very good, Kate.”  He pauses for a moment to see if there is more she wishes to say on this topic.  There is no need for more, should she not wish to.  She has accurately identified both the issue and the necessary thought pattern to solve it.  A few moments pass without further comment on the subject.  “Are there other matters you wish to discuss today?  We have sufficient time.”

Kate considers.  “Castle and I talked about the summer.  Cleared up a lot of matters.  Why I went to the cabin.  Why I sent him away.  Why he never told me how he felt.” 

“And what result did that have, Kate?” 

“We – came to an understanding.”  She suddenly grins, wickedly.  Dr Burke wonders how much talking had been done.  It appears that other forms of interaction may have intervened.

“Mmm?”

She turns serious again.  “I don’t think we’re all fixed yet.  I said that I’d written letters.  He wrote me letters, too, all summer, but he never sent any of them either.  He said he’d seen two of mine.  So he offered to let me read all of his.” 

Dr Burke only just succeeds in stopping himself from spluttering in astonishment.  He considers, with deep unhappiness, that his professional demeanour has suffered more damage in the previous fifteen minutes than in the previous fifteen years.  He has never rejected a patient in his life.  He is entirely uncertain as to whether he can continue that record.  He wishes, momentarily, that he had not preserved that record into this case.  Either of these cases.  He is, again, developing a stress-related migraine.

“But I said no.  I’m not ready to show him my letters, and I don’t want to see his till – if – I am.”  A sensible conclusion.  “It’s all too fragile.  I’m too fragile.  I need to be stronger, more secure with where we are, before I can read them.  I think – I expect - some of them are pretty painful, and that won’t help now.  Same for mine.”

“Why do you think you have come to an accommodation now, when you have not before?”

“I was truthful.  He was truthful.  I don’t think we’ve ever actually talked about anything before.  We agreed that he’d try to be honest and I’d try not to run away.”  Dr Burke remembers Mr Castle also saying that they had never talked.  He is somewhat comforted, a solace of which he is much in need at this time, as he recalls that he had thought, when Mr Castle had first requested his assistance, that both patients would need substantially less help if they would only talk to each other.  Here is the proof that he had been correct.  His imminent headache recedes some way in the satisfaction of being correct, and some way further as he realises that this, thankfully short, session is almost over.

“And what does that lead you to conclude?”

“We should talk.  Honestly.  Without running away from each other.”

Dr Burke knows that he should be exceedingly satisfied with his work to date.  Both his patients have reached, and solved, their core issues.  They have even achieved honesty before, it seems, a physical relationship.  Most pleasing.  Unfortunately, the travails he has undergone to bring them to this stage have left him wholly enervated.  He contemplates the virtues of a lengthy vacation on an uninhabited island.  The thought is extremely appealing.  He will collect a variety of brochures at lunchtime. 

He bids farewell to Detective Beckett and knows that he has failed utterly to disguise his relief.  Detective Beckett leaves looking thoroughly satisfied with herself.  Dr Burke takes two Aleve, closes the blinds, and asks his receptionist to hold all calls for an hour.

* * *

 

Castle reaches his own home in a state of blissful happiness.  As far as he is concerned, all is right with the world.  They may not be wholly fixed, completely mended, but he thinks that everything will be just fine.  Just… fine.  He swings through the door whistling tunelessly and is just aiming for his room and clean clothes when he realises that his mother is regarding him with a basilisk stare.

“Did you have a good night, Richard?”

Castle grins widely.  “Yes, Mother dear, I did.”  He carries on towards his room, then remembers and turns around.  The basilisk does not appear to have vacated the premises, but he doesn’t care.  “Mother, Kate and I have sorted things out.  I want her to be able to come here without being made to feel uncomfortable.”  He hesitates.  His mother does not look surprised.  Nor does she look pleased.  “I don’t expect you all to be friends.  I just want civility.”

“You’ve let that woman walk all over you for three years, and now you’re letting her do it all over again.  ”  There’s a melodramatic pause.  “She’ll just rip your heart out and stamp on it. Don’t you have any self-respect?”  He was managing civility perfectly well, till that last line.

“Mother.  I told you before you had no idea what was going on.  You don’t.  There was a whole lot more wrong with her in the summer than anyone knew.  It’s up to Kate what she tells you, though I can’t imagine why she should need to tell you anything.  It’s me she needed to explain to, and she has.  I know what went on, and we’ve worked it out.”  Well, mostly.  But his mother doesn’t need to know the finer points.  “I’m not a child and I don’t need your approval.  My self-respect is perfectly intact.  You were perfectly friendly to Kate before the summer, so don’t give me that line about walking all over me again, because you never thought it till now.”

Martha looks sceptical. 

“And Mother,”  his tone changes to one Martha is not used to hearing, “please don’t do anything at all to make this uncomfortable – which also means don’t encourage Alexis to.”  He’s halfway back to his room when he thinks of one final point.  “I’ll tell Alexis myself.  Don’t say anything to her.  She deserves to hear it from me directly.”

“I’m glad you still have some family loyalty,” Martha mutters, just quietly enough that Castle can pretend he didn’t hear.  Still, he’ll ensure that he’s home before Alexis.  He doesn’t trust his mother to be discreet.  He goes to shave and change, before he needs to meet Kate and Esposito at the range.

* * *

 

Kate is carefully not telling Espo that she’s intending to try shooting without Castle in the booth with her.  She does, however, make sure to tell him that it had gone better last night, and that every bullet had at least hit within the silhouette, and sees the relief rise in his face before he deliberately smooths it away.

When Castle bounces up it’s perfectly clear to Esposito that something more has changed between them.  Nothing’s said, there’s no touching, but the look on Castle’s face is unmistakable, and when Beckett notices Castle’s there she almost looks sappy.  She’ll be losing her _Cops-don’t-show-feelings_ badge next.  Looks like he owes Ryan that fifty.  Jeez, they’re all at it.  He feels left out.  Maybe Lanie would be up for an evening out. 

Once inside, Kate waits till Esposito’s left and then tells Castle she’s going to shoot without him balancing her.  He isn’t impressed.

“Just let me try, Castle.  I have to move forward.  You know that.”

He grumbles disgruntledly.  He doesn’t think this is such a good plan.  He also sees that if Kate can shoot by herself he won’t be able to cuddle her.   On the other hand, if she can shoot by herself she’ll be back to being Beckett, which has certain other advantages.  He remembers what she’d put on this morning and thinks of those advantages with more enthusiasm.  When Kate turns him round and pushes him out the booth he lets her, and goes to wait somewhere that’s sufficiently out of her view that she thinks she’s doing it alone, and sufficiently near to intervene if needed.  When he hears the hard click of the round being chambered, he has barely time to come alert when he hears the shot.  There’s a pause, several curses, all related to inaccuracy, and then a continuous sequence: click, shoot, curse.  When there’s a much longer gap he pokes his head round the wall of the booth to see what’s going on.  A familiar aura of irritation is surrounding an annoyed-looking Beckett.  Very much Beckett.  She’s muttering crossly under her breath.

“What’s wrong?”

“Out of ammunition.  I was just starting to shoot a bit more accurately, and I’ve run out.”  She flicks her glance around in case a clip will appear from thin air.  “I want another clip.”  But watching her, Castle can see all the small signs of stress, and he thinks it’s just as well she’s done.  He moves wholly into the booth, and wraps arms around her, not missing the way she relaxes into him and breathes deeply, exhaling tension.

“Come on, let’s get coffee.  You can ask Espo to bring more clips next time.”

“And you can take me to your range for another go later.”

He looks at her, dramatically aghast.  “Twice in one day, Beckett?”

“Yeah.”  She grins.  “I want that dinner, Castle.  I’ll never get to Jean-Georges on my own budget.  And you promised you’d take me to the range whenever I asked.” 

He pouts at her. “I’ll be practising too.  I’ll still beat you, and you’ll have to make me dinner instead.”

“Or buy it.  What sort of takeout do you like best?” 

He develops a slow, sexy smile that wriggles down her nerves.  “The sort I take out of her clothes.”  

“I’ll settle for coffee right now.  We can think about… takeout… later.”  She smiles back, in a way that makes his toes curl.  Definitely time to go.  The sooner they’re out of here, the sooner he can tuck her back into his arm and kiss her.  And then kiss her some more.  He cuts off that train of thought while he can still walk and talk coherently.

In the coffee bar Castle is quite content with their relative positions, until Kate shifts uncomfortably in his grasp.  “I went to see Dr Burke this morning.”

“Mmm?”

“We discussed my mother.”  He tightens his grip on her.  That’s never led to anything good, before.  “I realised I thought I needed to be perfect because I couldn’t solve her case.  Trying to make up for that one big failure.”

That’s unexpected.  “When did you realise that?”

“Yesterday.”  _Before_ they’d gone to bed.  Seems like Kate had done some hard thinking, yesterday, and then made decisions.  Not the other way round.  _This has really got a chance of working_ , he thinks, because just for once they’ve thought, and talked, first.  Before acting, or reacting. 

They drink their coffee in comfortable companionship, content to be quietly together for now.  When it’s done, Kate slowly unfurls herself and looks disapprovingly at the weather, which is turning from mildly cloudy to definitely unpleasant.

“I wanted to go for a run,” she grumbles.  Castle doesn’t really see the attraction.  He goes to the gym, sure, but he doesn’t enjoy running.  Rowing machines, now…  She’s still muttering.  “Seeing as I’m not allowed to spar, running’s all I can do.”  Castle grins at her.

“There are other forms of exercise, you know.”  The appreciative look in his eyes tells her exactly what he means.  “Press-ups, for example.”  She glares at him, and declines the bait.

“I wanna punch something.  Work off some frustration.”  Her voice changes.  “It would help me shoot better.”  She sounds as if she’s trying to convince herself.  “I’ve only got a week.”  There’s another pause.  “What time can you take me in tonight?  Have you a book party?”

“No,” says Castle with an air of happy realisation.  “I don’t.”  He thinks for a moment, then has an idea.  “Why don’t you come for dinner at the loft tonight?  Clear the air.  If we ate early-ish then we could go to the range after.”  Kate’s looking at him, appalled.  Fortunately she’s also lost for words.  Obviously that wasn’t a plan she’d expected.

“Come on, Kate.  It’s a good plan.  You have to see them at some point, and at least this way there’s a time limit.  If it’s not comfortable, we can go to yours after the range.”  She quirks an eyebrow at him.  “If you want me to come, of course,” he stammers, until he sees her wicked grin.  “That wasn’t nice,” he pouts, putting on his best puppy-dog eyes.  “Now you have to come for dinner, to make it up to me.”

Kate is not at all certain that this is a good plan.  In fact, she’s sure that this is quite possibly the worst idea, out of a long line of bad ideas and crazy suggestions, she could ever be contemplating.  But.  But she has to meet them sometime.  But she doesn’t want to be unable to go to the loft, if she and Castle should want to.  _But_ she is an adult and can, and will, behave accordingly.  However anyone else behaves.  And the most important _but_ , but Castle’s asking her to, and he’s spent three years not asking her for anything, not making her do anything she doesn’t want to.  So she ought to do this for him: some small recompense for all the hurt she’s caused him.  If it doesn’t work out, she’ll at least have given it her best shot.

“Okay.  What time?”  Castle looks at her, a little surprised she hadn’t argued further, or indeed at all.

“Seven-ish?  Nothing fancy.  Pasta and ice-cream.”  He switches trains of thought before he can decide that actually he’s not ready for the dramatics he’s just ensured he’ll be subject to.  “How many clips do you want tonight?  Three again?”

“Six.  I went through three this morning, and it wasn’t anything like enough.  If I don’t use them, is it going to be a problem?”

Castle acquires a slightly bemused expression.  “Why should it be a problem?”  Ah.  Yes.  One of those points of complete incongruity.  Obviously Castle never thinks about budgets.  The NYPD has to.  She usually manages to ignore that aspect of his life: it’s just another difficulty.

“I just need to call and arrange it.  That’s what they’re there for.  It’ll all be ready when we get there.”  He sounds as if it’s as easy as picking up milk.  For him, she supposes, it probably is.  She has a moment of complete dissociation.  How can she ever be enough, when he can have anything he wants?  And then Castle looks down at her and tugs her a little closer and covers her mouth with his and she stops worrying about that, and shortly after stops worrying at all. 

* * *

 

Castle goes home to write, and wait for Alexis to arrive home from school.  He’s not looking forward to the discussion, but he reminds himself firmly that Dr Burke has shown him that it’s okay to have his own view and stick to it, and that he is the adult here.  Even if a lot of the time he isn’t.  He pushes that thought away.  He’s done a lot of growing up, probably not before he needed to, since … well.  Since the summer?  Since last summer?  Since the day he was hauled out a book party?  No.  Maybe since an alleyway, since Lockwood.  He disciplines his wayward mind and turns to his manuscript.

When he hears the door and Alexis’s footsteps he pulls himself together and peeps round to assess her mood before deciding how to approach this.  She seems reasonably cheerful, bouncing up to him with her latest round of A-grade averages.  He has no doubt that she’ll ace college entry, but he really isn’t ready to accept that she’s almost grown, almost leaving home.

“Hi, Dad,” she chirps at him.

“Hi, pumpkin.”  He takes a breath.  Alexis looks at him hard, clearly picking up his hesitation.  “Alexis, Kate is coming round for dinner tonight.  She and I… we’ve sorted things out.”  He stops.  Alexis is acquiring an expression that he doesn’t think bodes anything like well.  It seems like Alexis is still pretty sore at Kate.  Hell.  Maybe he should have waited a bit longer before trying this.  But he’d just wanted to mend matters, as soon as possible.  He wants Kate in his bed, in his home, not always visiting her.

“What?”  That didn’t sound like unqualified approval.  In fact, it didn’t sound like approval at all.  Alexis is abruptly wearing an expression unpleasantly reminiscent of his mother at her most stubborn.  “I’m not having dinner with _her._ ”

“I don’t expect you all to be friends.”  It’s exactly what he’d said to his mother.

“Good.  She’s done nothing but hurt you.  I don’t want to have dinner with someone that selfish.”  But there’s a very strong undercurrent of wounded pride and some shame. 

“Alexis, Kate doesn’t have to answer to you.  She and I have worked things out.  How and why are not your problem.  I can look after myself.”  Alexis’s look of complete scepticism does not suggest that she believes a single syllable of that statement.  He tries again.  “I know you’re sore at Kate.  She won’t hold a grudge” – that’s likely a blatant lie, but she won’t _show_ it – “if you don’t.  You all have to get along.”  He isn’t making much of an impression.  Alexis looks just as mutinous as before.  What happened to his empathetic daughter?  Only one thing for it: lay down the law, which he never does.  “I expect you and Grams to be at dinner and be polite.  That’s all I want.  Nothing more.  Kate and I will be going out straight after and then you can do what you like.”

Alexis stares at him.  This isn’t the usual, easy-going, nothing’s-a-problem dad she’s used to.


	52. You're just like poison

Kate arrives at the loft dressed as if she had been at the precinct all day, wearing her work armour and Detective Beckett shell, carrying a bottle of wine which she won’t be drinking.  At least, not before they go to the range.  Depending on how dinner goes, she may well down most of one after that.  Or Scotch.  She’ll buy a bottle on the way home, if necessary.  Though anger always makes her aim better.  She’s got this, though.  She can keep calm through the most difficult of interrogations, under the most intense provocation from the worst low-lives in New York.  So she can get through this dinner, without initiating any upsets.  She owes it to Castle to manage it.  She’s no desire to be in any way responsible for a rift in his happy little family.

Fortunately it’s Castle who opens the door.  She’s not ready for open antagonism even before she’s stepped across the threshold.  At least he looks pleased to see her, though she doesn’t think that the sort of greeting she’d have happily provided at her own home or in other circumstances is really appropriate.  Two seconds later it’s clear that Castle has a completely different idea of what’s appropriate, since she’s being thoroughly, if briefly, kissed.

“Hello.”  She shakes her head to clear it, and wiggles her toes to uncurl them.

“I brought wine for you.”  She steps inside and realises that neither Martha nor Alexis are around.  The question is obvious.

“Um.  Let’s sit down.”  Castle ushers her to his study with a guiding palm across her back and shuts the door.  Kate looks even more confused.  “Explanations in a moment,” he says, and pulls her in to kiss her considerably more lengthily and with some attention to detail.  She’d only just got her toes untangled from the first one.  She curves into him and investigates a few details on her own account, only stopping when it’s clear that the prospects of an uncharred dinner are at significant risk.

“Explanations, Castle?”  He looks unhappy.

“Um.  Mother and Alexis weren’t exactly keen on this idea.”  Kate appears entirely unsurprised.  “I’m not sure how this is going to go.”  Still not an iota of amazement.  “I think they’ll be polite.  Probably.  I did ask them to,” he finishes up, plaintively. 

“ ‘S okay, Castle.  I’m not expecting anything much.  They’ve got plenty reason to be upset with me, and I can handle that.  They’re just looking out for you. I’ll leave straight after if you need to mend matters.”  Castle makes a mutinous face that, though he doesn’t know it, closely resembles the one Alexis had used on him a handful of hours ago. 

“No, you’re not doing that.”  She raises an eyebrow, in a _who’s-going-to-stop-me_ way.  “I said we’d go to the range, together – anyway, you can’t go without me – and that’s what we’re doing.  I don’t care if you’re not all friends but you all have to be civil to each other.  I don’t like it when everyone’s angry, so I’m going to sort it.”  It’s not often that she’s heard Castle use that this-is-the-deal-take-it-or-leave-it tone.  Seems he’s picked up more from Dr Burke than just resolving the issues relating to them.  He very rarely sounds like a parent, rather than a pal.

“Well, if you’re going to feed me, hadn’t we better see what’s happening in the kitchen?  You promised me pasta and ice-cream.”

Castle scuttles for the door.  “My sauce!  It’ll be burnt.”  He turns round and grins.  “If it’s ruined, it’s all your fault for distracting me.”  Kate makes a disgusted noise of disagreement.

“It wasn’t me tugging you in here and closing the door, Castle.  That was all your idea.  If you’ve burned dinner I’ll go get takeout and see you at the range in an hour or so.”  Castle casts a swift glance in her direction.  That had sounded more like a wish than a joke.  He can see the small signs of tension in the furrow between her eyebrows, the slightly stiff stance.

“Come on.  Let’s get dinner.”

By the time pasta and carbonara sauce, (which magically appears to have survived its extended cooking time without burning, curdling, or any of a dozen different ways it could have been ruined, according to Castle) salad, garlic bread and drinks are on the table, Alexis and Martha still haven’t appeared.   Castle instructs Kate to sit down while he finds them, and while she’s waiting, passing the time by reviewing how she should draw, raise and fire; how the shot will be her decision, at her target, not a bullet aimed at her for reasons she still doesn’t fully understand, she can hear voices upstairs.  It sounds like quite the row going on.  She puts her hands over her ears.  She doesn’t want to hear any of this.  She doesn’t want to be responsible for Castle arguing with his family, which as far as she knows he never has before now, and she considers very seriously whether she should just call out that she’s leaving, and go, resolve this conflict that way.  Except that she’d said to Castle that she’d try, and it clearly means a lot to him that she will.  So she sits, increasingly uncomfortable, and tries to lose herself in reviewing how to shoot once more.

A couple of minutes later, the discussion having crescendoed and then been abruptly silenced by what had sounded suspiciously like Castle yelling, she can hear movement.  She thinks, knowing it for a distraction, that he’s _loud_ when he’s angry.  That last had sounded very irate indeed. She wishes even more fervently that she could just leave.  This is not going to be at all enjoyable.

Her worst fears are realised when all three protagonists troop downstairs and seat themselves in stony silence.  Martha and Alexis are fixing her with identical glares, and Castle looks equal shares angry and miserable.  Kate tries to say _hello_ and receives only cold _Hellos_ in return.  Castle tries to make social conversation and is unsuccessful.  No-one says a word, except for _thank you_ , as pasta is dished up.  Side dishes are passed in perfect, glacial, politeness.  Every attempt to be civil, or to make further conversation, freezes in icy shards of civility.  It’s suffocatingly awful.  It would be far better, Kate thinks, if Martha or Alexis would just say what’s in their head.  At least then it could be addressed.  She looks firmly at her plate and thickens reserve and control around her.  She won’t start a row. Though the temptation to point out to the other two women that if they want to make Castle happy, behaving like this is not going to cut it, is becoming almost irresistible.  She finally simply keeps her mouth firmly shut and confines herself to glancing occasionally at Castle, hoping he’ll see the support and sympathy in her eyes.

Castle is contemplating the appalling disaster that dinner has become, increasingly angry that no-one seems to be able to be pleasantly polite; increasingly amazed that Kate hasn’t just got up and left.  He realises that she’s finished and both her hands are out of sight, right about the point that she gently squeezes his knee.  He doesn’t know if she’s seeking reassurance or giving it, but it feels good, and it sparks him out the cycle of miserable annoyance.  Or at least out of the misery.  He’s still pretty annoyed.

“Okay, enough of this,” he raps.  “Kate is my guest and I invited her to my home.  I told you all I expected civility.  I didn’t mean this.  You all claim you just want me to be happy, but I’m not seeing much of it right now.”  There’s a shocked, short silence.  Kate pushes her chair back.

“I think I’d better leave,” she says.  “Let you all settle your differences without me.”  She looks at Castle.  “Let me know what you want to do about later.  I’ll wait to hear from you, and we can take it from there.”  She’s starting to stand up when Martha speaks.

“Running away again, Detective Beckett?  Expecting my son to run after you just like always.  Nothing changes, does it?”  Kate sits back down and meets Martha’s eyes, her own clear, sure and cold.

“I’m not going to interfere between you and Castle.”  There’s a choked sound from Alexis.  “If Castle is content – and he knows the whole story, and has done for weeks - that’s enough for me.  I’ve answered to him.”  There’s a choked sound from Castle, who’s trying to process the idea that Kate actually feels that she needs to answer to him for her actions.  That’s new.  “How you deal with this between yourselves is up to you three, not me.  I don’t have any right to get involved.   I’m fully aware that you’re both upset with me, because Castle got hurt, and I’m sorry about that.  I came here tonight because Castle asked me to, because he thought it might mend matters.  I’ve tried to be polite, because Castle asked me to, but it hasn’t worked.”  She stands again.  “I’m not running.  I’m leaving so that you can have the rest of your family discussion completely openly without Castle being embarrassed that I’m hearing whatever you’re about to say.  Castle,” her tone softens and she smiles gently at him, “whatever you want to do about later is okay by me.  Just let me know whether, or where, I should meet you.  I’ll be there, if you do.”  She picks up her jacket and the door shuts behind her seconds later, leaving the three remaining people gazing blankly at the space where she had been.

“Happy now?” asks Castle, bitterly.  “I hope so, because I’m not.  I asked you both to be polite – that was all, you didn’t even have to try to be friendly - and you couldn’t even do that for me.  Not for Kate.  For me.”  He stands up himself.  “It was me she hurt, and I can get past it.  Why can’t you?”  His upset spills over.  “She died.  Would you have been happier if she’d stayed dead?”  

“ _You_ could have died.  Did you think of that?  You threw yourself at her, and if you hadn’t been too late you would have been shot instead.   She could have got you killed, any number of times.  How do you think we feel about that?  We care about you, and you could’ve been gone.  You tried to save her and could have died yourself, and she didn’t even appreciate it, just pushed you away and disappeared.    She didn’t care about you at all, and now suddenly she does?  Why should we believe that?”

He’d never thought of that.  Not when he’d dived for Kate, not when he was desperately trying to hold her life back in, not in the ambulance, or ICU, or any other time.  His anger drains away, and he deflates. 

“I didn’t think of that.  But it was still my decision.  Kate would never, ever have asked or expected me to stop a bullet for her.  My decisions aren’t her fault.  You can’t blame her because I tried to save her.”  There’s a long pause. 

“If I can forgive her for hurting me then I don’t understand why you think you’ve got more reason than me to be hurt.  If  know the story and believe her why won’t you trust me?”  There’s another long pause.

“I’m going out now.”  Castle sounds as unhappy as Martha and Alexis look.   “I don’t want to talk about this any more tonight.  I just want you both to think about what I’ve said.”  He’s swiping on his phone before he’s even gone.

* * *

 

When her phone rings and caller ID tells her it’s Castle, Kate’s slightly surprised it’s so soon.  She’s been trying to breathe deeply, fending off startlements and half convinced that the slightest unexpected sound will send her into panic. 

“Beckett,” she answers, automatically.

“Kate, still wanna go to the range?”  She does, but...

“You sure you want to?”  She can hear dispiritedness in his voice.  “We don’t have to.  You can come by and just talk.”

“Are you home already?” 

“No.  I’m in the coffee bar nearest your apartment.”

A few moments later Castle’s walking in the door of the coffee bar, searching out Kate towards the rear, sitting with her back against the wall in a defensive posture he recognises, painfully, from the first time after she’d come back.  She doesn’t look any happier than he feels, but there’s a cup of coffee ready for him and he knows what she’s saying to him with it.  _It’s okay, we’re okay._   He has a long drink before he does anything else; Kate just sitting back and waiting for him to put it down.

“I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have come over.  I’m not going to get between you and your family.”

“I thought I could fix it.  If you all talked.  I should have known that wouldn’t work.”  Kate’s knuckles turn white on the handle of her coffee cup.  That’s far too close to the bone, even now.  Castle doesn’t notice and carries on.  “I don’t expect you to tell them anything you don’t want to.  But they don’t know anything and they don’t understand why you left.”  He takes another drink.  “They said I could have died, if I’d got to you first.  I never even thought of that.”  Kate’s not saying a word, her hands now under the table where they can’t be seen, gripping and twisting together.  She hadn’t thought of that either, and the idea that Castle might have died hits her solar plexus like a punch.    She wants to go home, suddenly; any wish to go to the range removed.  It’s her fault Castle’s at odds with his family, another hurt she’s caused him.  And she could have got him killed.

“Castle, let’s not go to the range.”  He looks at her, astounded.  “Your family – they need to know you’re still theirs.”  It’s an inelegant way to phrase it, but she hasn’t got a better way to express how much she feels that he shouldn’t be fighting with his mother and daughter because of her.   She’d never want him to feel he had to choose.  They ought to come first.  “You ought to be with them.”

“No.”  It’s her turn to be astounded.  “I’m going to do what I want, for a change.  They never disapproved of you before.  They just need time to adjust.  I _said_   I was going to the range with you and that’s what we’re doing.  Unless, of course, you don’t want to see me any more tonight?”  That last sounded almost as insecure as Kate feels.  Insecure Castle?  What’s going on here?

“I do.  Of course I do.  I just...”

“Just what?  You said you’d try not to run away from things without talking to me.”  It wasn’t quite what she’d agreed, but she’ll let him have the slight amendment.

“Just don’t want you hurt more.  You shouldn’t be arguing about me.”  Her voice cracks slightly.  “You shouldn’t have been in a position where you might have got killed.  It’s not your job.  You need to be careful.”  She looks up sharply when he starts to laugh.

“ _Now_ you tell me I shouldn’t be in a position where I might get killed?  _How_ many times have we been in life-or-death situations?  Fifteen?  Seventeen?  Don’t you think the time for saying that was back when I first saved your life?  It’s a bit late now.  Anyway, what I do is my choice.  You couldn’t stop me choosing to follow you around – even if you could have got me kicked out if you’d really tried,” he says hurriedly, unwilling to reopen that difference, “- and you can’t stop me making my own decisions.  It’s not your fault I was there.”  He lifts her chin up with a warm finger.  “Not your fault.”  He can see the doubt and guilt still in her eyes.

“But it’s my fault you’re arguing with your family.  If I hadn’t gone upstate they wouldn’t be like this.” 

Castle doesn’t have a quick, or a good, answer to that, largely because it’s true.  And he’d said that he would try to be honest.  It’s just that every time he has to be honest he doesn’t like what he’s about to say. He wonders plaintively why truth can’t be pleasant once in a while.  He retreats to his coffee and hopes it will provide a better answer than any he’s managed so far.  Kate’s chewing at her lip in a less-than-appealing fashion – well, she doesn’t intend it to be appealing.  It’s still cute.  He could write an illustrated book on the hundred-and-one ways Kate Beckett nibbles her lip, from aroused to zany.  Not zany.  Kate is never zany.  That’s his job.  Hmm.  Somewhere during that distraction he’s had an idea.  Though he doesn’t think that Kate’s going to like it at all.

“If I told them that you had PTSD, maybe...” That sentence trails off as he sees the panicked look in her eyes.  “Only if you let me.  I wouldn’t... I won’t, if you don’t want me to.  It’s your choice.”  He puts an arm round her, hoping to reassure her that he won’t take the decision for her.  It’s not his secret to tell.  He can feel her unhappiness with the idea in her lack of response.  Leave it for now.  Pushing won’t help, and she was right, his family is not her family, no matter how close he is to her, and the previous friendship is not the same as family, either.  He’s so used to his family: everything open and discussed, everybody putting in their two-cents’ worth, that he’d forgotten Kate’s reserve, her shell.  Her lack of a family to confide in.  She hadn’t even confided in her father, had hidden it all from him, too, in case he broke again. 

“Kate... It’s okay.  It was a silly idea.  Let’s forget it.”  She’s finishing her coffee, hiding in the now-tepid liquid.

“Let’s park it.  I need some time.  Are we going to the range?”  It’s a very clear change of subject.  But, Castle notes, she said _park_ , not _forget_.  Which might mean she’s going to think about it, later.

At the range Kate tells Castle she needs to do it all herself, kisses him enthusiastically and then uses his stunned look to shut herself firmly in one booth and lock the door.  Castle looks at the shut door slightly blankly, though in truth he hadn’t expected anything else, (he certainly hadn’t expected the kiss) and decides not to waste the time; getting himself a booth and practising until he hears Kate finish.  When she taps on his door he’s pretty pleased with how he’s doing.  It occurs to him that Kate’s not the only one who wasn’t handling a gun over the summer.  Another avoidance tactic of his own that he hadn’t noticed.  Kate’s looking relatively happier, too: less stressed than earlier.

“That was better,” she admits.  “Closer to where I want to be.  Still not great, but the extra clips really made a difference.”  She grins.  “I’ll win that dinner from you.  Even if you were practising.”  Castle’s looking hopefully at her, deliberately adorable.  She doesn’t feel inclined to resist it: it may be better, but it’s still pretty stressful.  She could do with some reassurance.  So could Castle.

“Wanna come back for coffee?”


	53. Tomorrow will be fine

Coffee mutates into wine, and wine turns into cuddling turns into kissing turns into... quite a lot more.  Castle’s hands and mouth are more possessive than before, desperate to keep her close, fill her mind and body with nothing but him, show her that whatever the external …difficulties… he’s not giving this, her, up.  When she’s wrapped into him, afterwards, on the mess that used to be a neatly made bed, he thinks he’s made his point.

But tonight is not a night when Castle ought to stay, though it’s difficult for Kate to ask him to go when she, both of them, wants him to remain.  Still, he needs to be at his own loft with his own family, and Kate wants to think in solitude.  So she bites her lip and manages to tell him the truth: that she needs some time alone to think about what he’d said earlier.  It’s harder than she expects: not used to explaining herself to anyone, it’s difficult for her to find the words, but she seems to manage it well enough not to hurt him.  If she’s going to do this right, then she needs to – not let him hold her to account, precisely, but make her hold herself to account, and try to explain.

When Castle leaves, Kate waits till she’s sure he’s gone, then gets up and brews herself hot chocolate.  Now she’s alone, she can think about his suggestion.  Should she let him tell his mother and daughter about the PTSD?  Instinctively, as ever, the thought of telling anyone anything repulses her.  But. But Castle knows, Lanie knows, Ryan and Espo and Dr Burke all know.  So what’s the difference?  Well.  Dr Burke is treating her, so that’s pretty different.  Lose him.  Castle – that’s obvious.  Lose him, too.  From this consideration.  Not from anything else.  The others – they’re her friends, the nearest thing she has to supportive family – ah.  Just like Martha and Alexis are Castle’s family.  Hell.  Decision obvious, really, on that realisation.  She’s told her family, though the minimum necessary to mend matters.  So – she hates the thought, but truth has brought her here – she should allow Castle to do the same.

Castle isn’t exactly happy about having to go home, but he knows that Kate’s right: that he shouldn’t make matters worse at home, by making them think he’s choosing something other than them.  Besides, he had seen the guilt in her face and knows that she feels bad about it, even though not all of it is down to her.  And, of course, she’d explained, which is still sufficiently unexpected that he’d do nearly anything to have it continue.  Mature give and take, not running away and backing off.  She’s thinking about his request, and he needs to give her the space she’s asked for.  It won’t improve if he pressures her; she’ll only back off.  He thinks about the difference between not pressuring, and not letting her run away.  It’s a very fine line, and he isn’t entirely sure where it might lie, but the chances are it’s the difference between a fight and a mature discussion about what should be done.  If he sticks to that, he should be okay.  Probably.

When he gets home no-one’s around.  Even his mother has either gone out or gone to bed.  He notices that the clearing-up has been done, and guesses that one or other of them is trying – if not to mend matters – at least not to make them any worse.  As Castle prepares for bed, wishing that he wasn’t going to be sleeping alone, he also wishes that he knew what Kate might be thinking; how she’ll answer his request.  He really doesn’t know which way she’ll jump, and he can’t affect it anyway, because it’s still not his secret to tell. 

It’s just his family that’s breaking on it.

* * *

 

Kate texts Castle early, asking if he’ll meet her at Columbus at the usual half past ten.  She’s still not happy about revealing her mental scars to anyone further, but she’s sure that if she doesn’t, there is very little chance that she’ll ever be comfortable going to the loft, and very little chance that Castle will actually be happy.  And if he can’t get wholly happy, then they’ll break pretty quickly, which is a particularly unpleasant thought.  So if she wants to keep this – and she does – she needs to take another step out of her comfort zone.

“I thought about what you asked,” she starts, following a courage-building mouthful of coffee, and makes a face that Castle is perfectly sure means she’s about to say _No_.  “I don’t like it.  I don’t like other people knowing my private business.”  She stops, and he’s even more sure.  When she speaks it’s rushed out in one breath.  “You can tell them about the flashbacks that you triggered.”  She sucks in air.  “That every time I saw you I died again.”  And another exhale, gasped inhale.  The memory, still vivid, pixel sharp, makes her tremble.  Castle slides his arm round her and takes her to a bench where he can hold her and try to soothe the tremors.  “You can’t tell them anything more.”  Castle doesn’t think that there’s anything more that he’d need, or want, to tell.  Their lacerating conversations are not an experience he wishes to share with anyone else.  He doesn’t particularly want to tell them this, either, the memory of bright blood and green grass under the clear blue sky still piercing, causing his arm to tighten, his body to curve over her, protecting her from a threat that isn’t there, because he’d failed when one was.

“I won’t tell them anything more than I have to.  Nothing more than you let me.”  It’s a promise, and she hears the sincerity shine through, curls into him in silent acknowledgement.  He takes it for the statement of trust it is: another action, because she doesn’t have the words, and when she kisses him softly he knows it.

* * *

 

Late that afternoon Castle gets home from today’s signing – he glares at his schedule: surely he must have covered every bookstore, every fan and every person involved with publication parties by now? It seems close to the end of the round of events, in fact, they tail off rapidly after the end of the week – with the intention of talking to both his mother and Alexis, preferably at the same time.  He really, really only wants to say this once.  The memories of the shot itself, and the pain of the consequences, are ones he would prefer to bury, so deep they could never be excavated.   He can hear that both of them are in.  First, though…  He picks up his phone and texts to confirm arrangements for another late night visit to the range.  With luck, he thinks, it’ll be followed by a late night visit to one or other apartment.  At least that’s something he can look forward to, unlike the next few minutes.  He has to remind himself again that he is an adult, that he has a right to his own views, and his own actions: he doesn’t need to back off from every confrontation.  Especially when it’s something, or someone, he really cares about.

By the time he’s done, both women have appeared, seemingly entirely unconscious that yesterday evening had ever occurred.  They’re behaving perfectly normally to him.  He’s not sure whether he’s happy no-one’s fighting or annoyed that they’re not making any effort to sort matters out with him.  He sighs heavily and jumps right in.

“I want to talk to both of you about Kate.”  He receives an embarrassed look from Alexis – ah, so she did the tidying, it looks like she’ll be rather more receptive today – and his mother’s best effort at Lady Bracknell in full handbag mode. 

“You couldn’t manage to play nice because I asked you.  Perhaps you can manage it after you know why she went.  But before we start, I asked Kate if I could tell you her business, and she said I could, because it would help me sort this out.  It certainly doesn’t help her mend, and she absolutely hates revealing anything private.  So maybe you’d just like to remember that she’s actually trying to make this work?”  The corollary – that they have not been – hangs very loudly in the air.

“Kate left because every time she saw me she had a full-on flashback of every single second of dying.  Every time, she felt the bullet hit and then she died again.”  There’s absolute silence.  “She went away to recover from that, but it didn’t work.  Maybe she _should_ have said to me that’s what was happening.  I wish she had, because then we wouldn’t be in this mess.  But that’s not a decision for you to judge, it’s for me.”  More silence.  “There is nothing else you need to know.  Except that Kate will be here as often as I want her here and she agrees to come, and _all_ of you will be pleasant to each other.  I don’t expect you to be friends, given how you feel.”  He looks at both of them.  “If Kate won’t come here, or I think it’s going to be too uncomfortable even to ask her here, I’ll simply go there.”  He relapses into silence of his own.  When silence has lasted too long to be endurable, he goes to his study and opens his laptop to write.  It doesn’t help him, the stress of being at odds with his family too off-putting, and nothing he writes, or more accurately attempts to write, is usable.  Eventually he attempts to distract himself by playing games until dinner time.

Dinner is very quiet.  Castle doesn’t – for once – want to talk; Alexis simply looks shell-shocked, and Martha is thoughtful.  Everyone is thinking very loudly and not speaking much at all.  Still, Castle notes, it’s noticeably less hostile than it was.  Maybe things are sinking in.  Once the meal is done, he explains he’s going out, doesn’t specify where, and catches up with Kate, Esposito, Ryan and Lanie – who he wasn’t expecting – at the Old Haunt.

Castle slides into the booth next to Kate and ignores the penetrating stares coming from Esposito, Ryan and Lanie.  However, it’s quite unnerving being the focus of attention when he’s not promoting his books.   And Kate has reverted, suddenly, to in-precinct habits, which is unwelcome.  She’s preserving a small, but definite, physical distance.  He’s more than slightly disappointed and upset by that.  He thought she was past that.  Except that when no-one’s paying attention, she drops her hands below the table top, out of view, and puts one above his knee, patting his leg meaningfully.  It’s unexpected, and it’s just as well he’s not drinking at the time.  Kate’s on Coke, preparatory to going to the range later.  But after that… mmm. 

His happy reverie of _after_ is interrupted by a firm nudge to the ribs – _ow_ , that was _not_ necessary – and Lanie’s not-so-dulcet tones. Come to think of it, Lanie’s rather closer to Esposito – or he to her – than usual.  Hmm. 

“Where’d you get that sex-on-a-fork chocolate cake you gave Kate, Castle?  I want some.”  The boys are on that like rabid terriers.

“You took Beckett chocolate cake?  When’d you do that?”

Espo grins nastily.  “ _Why’d_ you do that?  Didn’t you have time to make pancakes?”  Ryan chokes on his beer, he’s laughing so much.

“Couple of weeks ago.  It was good cake.  And it was all mine,” Kate says smugly, and not a little possessively.

“Like the giver, hmm?” says Lanie sardonically.  “You two ain’t fooling any of us.  So you might as well stop pretending.”

“How did you kn”- Castle gets half through that sentence before he’s wholly winded by another, much harder, elbow to the ribs.

“I didn’t.  You just told me, though.”  Lanie, Ryan and Espo exchange triumphant grins and fist bumps.  Kate just looks resigned.

“I’ve been fending them off since they got here.”

“I’m sorry.”  He looks pitifully hangdog.  “Are you ashamed of me?”  Kate fixes him with a very hard stare, under which Castle finally gives up the fight to maintain his expression of misery and grins widely.  She makes a very unimpressed face.

“No,” she whispers.  “But I was enjoying messing with them.  ‘S why I left a space.”

“Well, if they know, and you’re not ashamed, then there’s no reason I can’t do this,” and Castle closes the gap between them so that he’s pressing against her leg and stretches his arm along the booth behind her, just touching her back.  She doesn’t even notice that she leans slightly back into him.  Lanie does, though.

“That’s better,” she smirks, with a thoroughly self-satisfied expression.

“Lanie…” starts Kate, and then very obviously – at least to Castle - changes tack.  “Anything you and Espo want to share with the class?”  It’s perfectly timed to coincide with Esposito swigging at his beer.  Lanie preserves perfect passivity.  Esposito splutters and chokes till beer exits his nose.  Ryan sniggers evilly.

“Nah,” Lanie says, smooth as silk and twice as slippery.  Kate leaves it – for now.  She’ll attempt to interrogate Lanie another time, though likely she’d have more success, and more answers, if she tried to interrogate Lanie’s fridge.  Esposito’s reaction was amusing enough.  Kate’s sure that all three of her interfering friends – but the thought comes with an affectionate aftertaste – had planned this sting.  Still…

“So who thinks they’ve scooped the pool?”

“You knew?” Ryan sounds amazed.

“Of course I knew.”  _Idiots_ is clearly audible.  “You think I _wouldn’t_ know?  Detective, remember?  And you weren’t exactly subtle.”

“ _I_ didn’t know,” mumbles Castle.  “I’d have put into the pool, if I’d known.”  He becomes the target of four outraged glares, and another elbowing.  He’s sure he’s got a bruise.  Maybe he can convince Kate to kiss it better, later.  Mmm.  Yes.  He’s certain it’s time to go to the range.  Now.  And when he says so, managing to be marginally less enthusiastic than his rather overheated thoughts, Kate doesn’t disagree.  And then she doesn’t disagree when he slings an arm across her shoulders before they leave, and fails to take it away at any stage until they reach the range; indeed, she’s not disagreeing very clearly, given how closely she’s tucked herself in.

Again, his presence is not required for Kate to shoot. He practises till he’s satisfied that she’ll have to be extremely lucky – or right back to her absolute best – to beat him.  He’d love to take her to dinner, but it’s a bet, and he’s not going to humiliate her by not trying to win.  Especially as she’d know, and kill him for it.

Kate is in her own booth concentrating fiercely and muttering every time a shot doesn’t match her expectations.  She’s muttering a lot.  Pretty much every shot, in fact.  She reminds herself that she’s raising, aiming and firing all on her own, which she couldn’t do even three days ago.  And each shot had hit the target.  Somewhere.  Some of them would even have been a kill shot.    As she comes to the final clip, the scatter radius of the shots has reduced somewhat, and she’s confident that even if she eventually loses to Castle – though she’s certainly not intending to – she’ll be fit for duty.  She’s still not relaxed about it, though.  She can feel the wrinkle in her brow and realises that she’s chewed her lip till it’s close to bleeding.  More desensitisation required, she thinks, even if her aim is better and the flashbacks and startlements are almost gone.  It occurs to her, unhappily, that shooting at any range is not precisely going to be the same as being out on the job if someone raises a gun at her. She’d managed to ignore that, till now.  Dealing with that is not going to be fun.  She doesn’t see that she’s going to convince any of Esposito, Ryan or Castle to point a gun at her and see what happens, especially after their view of what happened the first time she tried to shoot at the range.

* * *

 

“I talked to Mother and Alexis.”  Kate and Castle are on their way out the range.

“Oh.”  She knows she ought to be happy that there’s a chance to sort this mess out, and that Castle’s trying.  That she’s trying.  But she finds it very hard to accept that _trying_ means that her imperfection and weakness have to be revealed.  “And?”

Castle hitches his shoulders less than comfortably.  “I think they’re thinking about it.  Dinner wasn’t so bad.”

“Probably because I wasn’t there,” Kate says cynically.  Castle squeezes her a fraction tighter, and doesn’t comment.  “You know, if it’s uncomfortable or embarrassing for you I’m happy not to come to the loft.” 

Castle can hear that Kate really means it. Although he recognises that Kate thinks she’s offering this to make things easier for him, not because she’s backing away, he’s not keen on the suggestion at all.

“I’m not hiding you like we’re some dirty little secret just ‘cause people can’t be grown-up.”  He doesn’t miss Kate’s infinitesimal stiffening.  “It’s my loft and I should be able to bring home anyone I want.  God knows Mother does.”

“Oh,” says Kate again, quietly.  Castle looks sharply at her. 

“You haven’t caused this latest mess, Kate.  You”-

“Stop telling me comforting lies, Castle.  You know perfectly well that if I hadn’t gone off you wouldn’t be arguing about this with your family.  I did cause it.  Lying about it won’t change that.”  She stops walking.  “I think I should go home.  I think you should, too.  Sort things there.  I’m not going to be responsible for making this worse than it is.  I said that I’m not going to come between you and your family.  They deserve better.”

Castle stares down at her, disbelieving.  Seems like his romantic plans for this evening are firmly off the menu.  “Let’s get this straight.  You’re saying I should go home and fix things with my family, rather than come with you?”

“Yes.  Because I know you.  If you’re quarrelling with your family you’re unhappy.  Sooner or later, that means you’ll be unhappy with the reason – that means me, for causing it.  So I’d rather you found out now if you’re going to be able to fix it.”   She’s very carefully not saying _before I’m in so deep not fixing it breaks me because I lose you_.  She’s already in that deep.  But she can still keep the depth of her pain from Castle, at least for now, if he can’t fix this.  She’s seen her own family fracture on this type of trauma.  She won’t see another one do it too.

Castle shakes his head.  “Nuh-uh.  You don’t get to pull that trick again.  You’re trying to run away.  Actually, you’re trying to do exactly what you did last time.  You’ve decided what _you_ think will hurt me least, and you’re just going to go right ahead with it no matter how much it hurts you, or me.  It’s not going to work.  _I’ll_  decide what hurts me least.  And right now that doesn’t include you backing off.”

There’s silence.


	54. Who am I to disagree?

Kate becomes aware that a cab has stopped and Castle’s tugging her towards it.

“I’m taking you home, and then we can discuss this and what you’re thinking.”

“I’m not going to the loft, Castle.”  She’s emphatically not up for a rerun of last night’s dramatic silences.

Castle considers simply saying _Yes you are_ but swiftly discards that as a viable plan.  One piece of emotional idiocy between them is enough.  Forcing the issue by taking Kate home with him is not going to help.  He doesn’t need to provoke an unnecessary fight, given that it’s likely there’s going to be a necessary one shortly.

“Okay, yours,” he says amiably.  From Kate’s expression, she’d evidently expected more of a fuss.  But it really doesn’t matter to Castle whose apartment they end up in, so long as he isn’t letting Kate run away on spurious grounds.  Especially when she doesn’t understand that she’s becoming as important to him as his daughter.  (He loves his mother, but not in the same way.)  He’s not going to be made to choose between them – by anyone.  Maybe he won’t have to, he thinks optimistically.  Maybe knowing the truth will let his family work this out.

Kate is silent in the cab all the way back.  It’s worryingly similar, initially, to other cab rides this side of the summer: too many thoughts unspoken, too much stress not dissipated.  But.  But there is one difference: she’s letting him touch her, keep his hand on hers, stroke her fingers.  It’s hardly wholesale relaxation and acceptance, but it could be so very much worse.  Though he really, really wishes she wasn’t so clearly chewing on a very unpleasant thought, because it inevitably means he’s going to hear something he doesn’t want to.  Usually that means it’s something he needs to know.

Kate is processing what Castle just said, thinking back over her reasoning for going upstate, that they’d only discussed three nights ago, comparing it to her reasoning now.  Oh.  He’s right.  Oh.  And this isn’t help she’s giving, whatever she thought, it’s trying to assert some control – albeit over the situation, not over Castle.  Except that’s not precisely true either.  Oh.  And worse, yes, it’s another attempt to quit before she’s quit on.  _Patterns, Kate.  Unconscious patterns._   She’d discussed this with Dr Burke ten days ago.  She’d seen herself doing it – when Castle had pushed her into recognising it.  She hadn’t spotted it this time either, until he’d shown her.  She turns her hand up under his and twines her fingers into the spaces, feeling the slight surprise that brings in the pause in his gentle stroking.

Once in her apartment, coffee made and wine declined, Kate’s still thinking over what she’s doing.  Or not doing.  She’s tucked protectively into the corner of the couch, not really focused on anything else.

“Talk to me, Kate.  You’re thinking too loud.”

“You were right.”  Okay, so that’s not a statement Castle hears very often.  “I was trying to stop this hurting you.  Your family means too much to you to damage it.”

“Kate, stop protecting me.  I don’t need it.  You might not believe this but I’m quite capable of making my own decisions.  Honest.”  He sees the raised eyebrow with some relief.  “I said you wouldn’t believe it,” he humphs.

“Why would I believe that someone who puts chocolate and strawberry sauce, sprinkles, cookie pieces and whipped cream on ice-cream because he can’t decide between them can make decisions?”  The snarky tone is instantly recognisable as the first line of Beckett defence-by-deflection.

“That’s not failing to make a decision, that’s a considered preference for more of a good thing over less.”  He smiles in an unmistakable way, making it clear what sort of a good thing he’d currently like more of.  Or any of.  Kate doesn’t seem to want to play yet.  He shifts up to her, and switches back to serious.

“You need to talk to me about what you’re thinking instead of trying to make decisions about us by yourself.  Stop thinking that the solution to every problem is for you to back away.  I know what I want.  I want you to come home with me.  That’s all.”  That’s all, he says?  That’s all?  In that tone of voice, it’s not a _that’s all_ at all.  It’s a statement of intent.  “So we’re going to fix it.  Mother and Alexis know everything they need to.  You know why they’re so upset.”  She does.  He could have been killed, and she shudders at the thought.  He pulls her in close, fingers playing at the bottom of her ribs.  “They’ll come round.  You need to come round.”  He doesn’t just mean literally.  “I want you to come to mine.  Lots.”  His fingers shift upwards a fraction.  “Starting tomorrow.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Yep.  I want you to come for dinner tomorrow.  I don’t have a book party - ” he looks relieved “- and it’ll have given them enough time to think about what I said and not enough to find an excuse to be missing.”  He looks closely at her.  “Kate, I just want everyone to get along.  You don’t have to talk about it.”

Kate looks unhappy.  “Your family talks about _everything_.  None of you ever _stop_ talking.  You’re all completely unfiltered.  I don’t want to discuss dying over dinner.  It kinda spoils the taste,” she says miserably.  “Catch-22, Castle: if they talk about it I’ll freak, and leave; if I make it clear I don’t want to discuss it they’ll be upset and we’ll be right where we are now.”  He opens his mouth to object.  “When has your mother ever not pursued a subject she thinks should be discussed?”  Um.  That would be never.

“Let me speak to them.  If I can fix that, will you come?”  He looks hopeful.  His fingers creep a little further up.

“Okay,” Kate mutters reluctantly.  “Because you’re asking me.  But if it gets too much I’ll leave.  And you won’t stop me.  I’m not having a flashback in front of an audience.”  Castle knows it’s the best he’ll get.  But at least she’s agreed to come at all.  And now that he’s settled that, he thinks they should settle to something a lot more enjoyable.  He tips her chin up and kisses her gently, then much more possessively, until worrying about being expected to talk should be the last thing on her mind.  Shortly, he’s pretty sure there’s only one thing on either of their minds, and it has nothing to do with talking.  Though long, long ago it used to be referred to as _criminal_ _conversations_ , he muses vaguely.  How appropriate, for them.  Even if it’s not quite accurate.

* * *

 

Arrangements for dinner are made during the walk through Central Park, on a sunny morning, following a visit to the precinct range.  Kate, having refused to let Castle into the actual shooting area – but ensuring that he was in the building – further refuses to tell him anything about how, or whether, her aim is improving, confining herself to an irritatingly non-committal smile.  She does, however, admit that it’s all still rather more stressful than she’d like, and is just as happy as previously to snuggle into Castle’s nice warm frame and be wrapped in.  Gradually, Castle thinks, she’s getting accustomed to the idea that casual, affectionate touch is a good thing.  Gradually, she’s getting accustomed to them.

“It’s not fair,” he pouts.

“What’s not fair?”

“You’re getting twice as much shooting practice as me.”  Kate smirks annoyingly.

“You agreed the terms.  Not my fault if you didn’t think it through.”  Castle growls mock-threateningly, and follows up by trying, and failing, to tickle her.

“Does that mean you’ll want to go again tonight?”

“Yeah.”  Kate doesn’t point out that it gives her – them – a get-out clause if dinner’s as uncomfortable as two nights ago.  No point in picking at that scab.  She changes the subject.

“You got a signing today?”

Castle looks unenthused.  “Yes.”  Suddenly he looks much happier.  “But I’ve hardly any signings left.  Good.  My fingers are eroding.  Look.”  He waggles his, completely undamaged, fingers under Kate’s nose.  “If my fingers are worn to stubs, I won’t be able to write.  The world won’t be able to appreciate my genius.”  Kate sighs.  Castle evidently has a happy idea, as he’s started to bounce.  “But I wouldn’t have any fingerprints.  I could be a master criminal and no-one would ever identify me.  That would be so cool.”

Kate sighs again, theatrically, and rolls her eyes in despair.  “I have three letters for you, Castle.  D.  N.  A.”  Castle humphs sulkily.

“You’re no fun.”

“You’d be no fun without fingers.”  Clearly Castle hadn’t thought of that, by the way he stops moving.  There’s a significant pause, then he smiles very slowly and very wickedly. 

“I’d still have a mouth,” he murmurs softly, seductively, in her ear.  “And lips, and teeth, and a tongue.”  Kate blushes.  She knows exactly what he can do with his mouth.  Though fingers don’t hurt, either.  He kisses her neck and then nips her earlobe.  “See?”  He pulls her round and kisses her in a leisurely fashion, taking possession of her mouth without a pause.  “See?” he says again.  “Fingers not required.”  Maybe not.  But Kate’s sure that fingers have advantages too.

“Wanna come back?” she says, invitingly.  Oh yes.  He surely does.  If only to show her what can be done without fingers.

So he does.  Slowly, and thoroughly, and exhaustingly.  And afterward, they can curl up together and enjoy being close, and not think about anything else for now.

Eventually Castle has to go home.  He needs to shower – if he tries that at Kate’s he’ll be late – change, and probably refill his pens before the signing.  And, he realises, he needs to talk to his mother, and possibly Alexis, before dinner.  Separately, this time.

“Gotta go, Kate.  See you for dinner at seven.  I’ll talk to my mother.”

* * *

 

Castle can hear his mother carolling an off-Broadway musical when he walks in, but he really needs to wash and change first.  That way he won’t be late, and incur the wrath of Gina, which is second in intensity only to the wrath of God.

Washed and brushed and looking very suave (even if he does say so himself) Castle feels competent to deal with his mother.  He finds her swishing round the living room, now belting out Broadway numbers and stopping when she sees him.

“Darling, I thought you had a signing?”  Darling?  That’s a bit of a change from yesterday.  Yesterday he’d been _Richard_ , in minatory tones.  He’s instantly suspicious.  The last time his mother had changed her view of his (mis) deeds that fast she’d wanted to borrow his platinum card.

“Ah, Mother.  Just who I was looking for,” he says, equally smoothly.  He doesn’t miss the small hitch in her movement.  “Kate’s coming for dinner tonight.”  His mother doesn’t say anything encouraging, but she also doesn’t have the same instant hostility that she’d displayed two days ago.

“If that’s what you want, darling.”  She must want something.  That almost sounded reasonable.

“Mother, I’d be really happy if you could manage not to ask anything about her flashbacks, or the shooting, or the summer.  Kate really doesn’t need to remember it all again.  Please?”

His mother looks at him penetratingly.  “Of course I shall be polite, Richard.  How could you think otherwise?”  He recognises an evasion when he hears one – he’s pulled that trick many times and then done exactly as he wanted to because no-one’s noticed he didn’t agree with them.

“Thank you, Mother.  And then will you please not ask about the flashbacks, or the shooting, or the summer?”

Martha looks disapproving.  “She ought to explain herself.  Not just let you do it for her.”

“Mother.  I explained what the flashbacks were about.  You were there.  Are you really saying that you want Kate to describe to you how often she felt herself dying, or make her feel it again?  Because I don’t believe that, however angry you are with her.”  He knows his mother.  She won’t be deliberately hurtful: however dramatic her reactions might be they’re swift to rise and swift to fall again.  For the first time in three weeks he thinks that maybe this can be mended, with time and care.  “Just because we all talk about everything doesn’t mean everyone does.  You know Kate doesn’t talk about things.”  He doesn’t want to tell his mother that he’d not helped by his evasions over the last three years.  He’s not going to discuss that.

Martha harrumphs in true grande-dame style, but Castle knows he’s got through to her.  “Really, Richard?”

“Really.  Every time she saw me.” He goes just a little further.  “I’ve seen her have them.  It’s not … easy to watch, even from the outside.”  His face changes as he thinks of the flashbacks outside the bookstore, in the range.  He never wants to see Kate in that state again.  Martha watches the flow of expression.

“Okay, kiddo.  Have her to dinner if you want.  I shall bite my tongue and say nothing about it unless she does.”  But under the theatrically haughty tone Castle hears his mother’s innate personality beginning to reassert itself.  She isn’t going to come round to viewing Kate as she did before in a hurry, but she certainly won’t make matters any worse.  He hugs her hard.

“Thank you.  Now, what did you want?”

“Why should you think I wanted anything, darling?”

“I don’t know, Mother.  Experience?”

“Well, I need to get some things….”

* * *

 

His mother largely sorted, he thinks, as Castle shakes out his cramped hands mid-way through the signing and looks a little balefully at the long line still waiting, he’ll probably find Alexis easier.  He’d seen her flinch when he’d described Kate’s flashbacks.  He’ll talk to her when he gets home. 

He does wonder why everyone important in his life seems to feel the need to protect him and take decisions for him, without even telling him about it.  He manages to make decisions perfectly well by himself about everything other than his personal life – oh.  That’s a point.  He doesn’t make many decisions in his personal life, does he?  He just… goes with the flow.  He brought Alexis up, but till now they’ve never really disagreed about anything, so the decisions haven’t involved any conflict.  He let his mother move in, because she needed his help, but he just lets her actions wash over him, because he cares for her.  Even when she’s drinking his best wine.  And until the summer the only decision he’d made about Kate was to stick around her and hope she saw how he felt without him having to say it.  Ah.  More ways in which he avoids conflict: this time by avoiding hard decisions.  So he’s left the door open for others to make them for him, and without him even noticing, mostly they have.

No wonder people feel the need to protect him.  He’s never shown them that he’s able to protect himself by making choices, so they all believe he’ll go along with whatever is suggested to him, regardless of how he feels.  He pushes that to the back of his mind to let it fester quietly while he finishes this signing.  He’ll think about it more later.  He’s not sure he likes what it shows him.

* * *

 

He’s not been home long when Alexis comes up to him.  She looks thoughtful, and a bit embarrassed.

“Dad, did Kate really have a flashback every time she saw you?”

“Yes, she really did, pumpkin.”

“How’d you know?”  It’s not – quite – _how do you know she’s not making it up_?, nor is it quite a request for explanation.

“I’d worked it out straight after she went upstate.  And then it was obvious when she came back, because she couldn’t look at me.”

Alexis is clearly thinking.  “You should have told us.  I wouldn’t have…”  she trails off.

“I thought you’d accept my views.  And it wasn’t up to me to tell you Kate’s private affairs.”

“You should have explained.  We’d have understood, then.”  Alexis clearly doesn’t understand why he didn’t.  He struggles to find some way to make her see it.

“Pumpkin, would you like it if I told Kate every detail of your bedtime routine – including that you still have to cuddle up to your monkey?”

“Dad!  You wouldn’t!”  Alexis looks horrified at the thought.  “That’s so embarrassing.  Don’t you dare!”

“Exactly.”  He waits for a few beats.  “You’d hate it if I spilled your private business all over the place without your agreement, wouldn’t you?”

He watches Alexis get it.  “Okay.  I see why you didn’t.  Why couldn’t she?  It’s not like she doesn’t know us.  I thought we were her friends.”  Alexis sounds a lot more childish and plaintive than he’d have expected.  He’d not realised that Alexis had been looking up to Kate in quite that way.  He’d missed that.  It certainly explains a lot about Alexis’s recent behaviour: he remembers how upset and furious he’d been when he found out that Damien wasn’t who he’d thought.

Castle shrugs.  “I couldn’t say.”  It’s entirely true, and entirely misleading.  He knows perfectly well why she didn’t tell anyone.  But that’s well beyond the limits Kate gave him, and would involve explaining his own role in matters, which he is not prepared to tell his daughter, or indeed anyone outside Kate and Dr Burke.

“Kate’s coming for dinner tonight, because I asked her.   Can we all just try to get along, without asking her about the summer?”   Alexis looks only slightly dubious, which in all the circumstances Castle feels is a substantial improvement.  “If you do, it might trigger all the memories again.”

“Okay, Dad.  I’ll try.  But she should still have told us.”  She hugs him, and goes off to start her homework.  Looks like dinner might be bearable after all.  It also looks like not backing off has, albeit painfully, started to resolve matters at home.


	55. You just might find you get what you need

Kate turns up with another bottle of wine that she won’t be drinking, and hopes that Castle has managed to have discussions with his family.  She really doesn’t want to be interrogated over dinner.  She’s already tense, after last time’s fiasco, because she thinks she knows what to expect.  She reminds herself that she survived last time, with no flashbacks, despite the strain, and that she can survive again.  As long as no-one asks her anything about it.  She identifies that most of the tension is because Martha and Alexis know about her issue, and she’s expecting them to look at her differently as a result.  She hates the thought that they know about it.

Just like last time, Castle opens the door and kisses her enthusiastically.  “It’ll be okay,” he murmurs, and louder, “C’mon in, Kate.”  Definitely not like last time, Martha and Alexis are both in the living room and, while they don’t exactly greet her with open arms, there’s more civility than hostility.  Though Kate can clearly see innumerable taxing questions in both their gazes, they’re not actually _asking_ anything.  She relaxes very slightly.

Dinner is … cautious, Castle decides is the best word.  It’s what he’d hoped would happen two days ago.  Conversation is conducted in a fairly pleasant, if not enthusiastic, and rather forced, tone, covering all sorts of trivial subjects, but it’s all pirouetting around the bull elephant trumpeting from the middle of the table.  The words _why did you do this, why didn’t you just tell people_ couldn’t be clearer.  And while Kate is playing her part in the discussion, and covering up well enough to fool his family into believing that she’s relatively normal, he can see her underlying tension deepening with every moment.  He slips a hand under the table and on to her knee, and when she puts her own hand unobtrusively over his he can feel the strain through her fingertips.  Nobody says anything… troublesome, all the way through dinner, and nothing trips Kate’s tension over into anything that she can’t cope with.  But she’s very relieved when it’s over, and everyone disperses.  Matters are by no means mended, even if civility is re-established.

Castle offers coffee in his study.  He doesn’t think that Kate’s quite ready to lift a gun yet, and when he comes back with the mugs and finds her curled into a chair, clearly undertaking some sort of a review exercise, eyes shut but slightly tremulous hands knotted together, he’s sure of it. 

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I just need a minute.  I’m fine.”  She opens her eyes in time to catch the tail-end of a faintly sceptical look.  “I am.  It was okay.”  Castle comes to sit on the arm of the chair, and drops a large hand on to her shoulder, squeezing gently.  Kate clasps it, looking for comfort and finding it as she leans into him.

“It’ll be easier next time,” he reassures.  “At least nobody’s fighting any more.”  He smiles widely and happily.  “Coming to dinner again was the right thing.  I told you so,” he says smugly, and squawks when she reaches up and twists his ear.   It’s very nearly normal, if he couldn’t feel the tension thrumming through her. 

“What’s wrong, Kate?”

She doesn’t answer the question, simply retreats into the coffee and the crook of his arm, so he can’t see her face.  When she’s finished inhaling the caffeine, she looks up.  He doesn’t think anything’s better.

“Let’s go to the range, Castle.”  More deflection.  He thinks he knows why, but this is not the time to push.  Not about this, anyway.

“In a minute, Kate.  Couple of things I need to do first.”  If she’d only been looking at him, rather than at her hands in her lap or the floor, she’d have known to be suspicious.  As it is, she’s not expecting her coffee cup to be removed, her face tipped up, or to be kissed firmly.  Surprise doesn’t stop her enjoying it, though.  Or responding.

It’s considerably more than a minute before they leave.

* * *

 

Kate insists that she’s fine to shoot alone, and refuses point-blank to listen to Castle’s suggestions that it’s not a good idea.  She has to keep progressing: can’t take a step backward for fear that she won’t be able to go forward again; but she knows that this isn’t going to be as successful as earlier.  Dinner, whilst an improvement, was hardly pleasant.  But she can’t tell them anything more than Castle already has.  There is no more to say, no further explanation than _every time I saw your son’s/father’s face I remembered dying, every instant._   She’s not prepared to discuss her feelings – or Castle’s – about their relationship.  It’s Castle’s right, and obligation, to tell his family what he wants them to know; though she expects that he will ask her first if he intends to discuss her.  She leaves that for now.

If she’s lucky, she’ll be able to use all the clips – there are more again, tonight.  She turns her thoughts away from what might happen if she’s unlucky.  Dwelling on it will only make it more likely, and it’s quite likely enough already.  But she really wishes, suddenly, she hadn’t asked Castle to leave her and practice in a different booth.

She loads the gun perfectly competently, raises and fires: she thinks quite smoothly.  Unfortunately she misses the outline completely.  The same happens for the next fourteen shots.  She can’t track what’s going wrong.  The first clip’s been a complete washout, and she doesn’t know why.  Earlier, she’d been doing pretty well.  She stops and considers each phase of her shooting, going through it with an empty gun.  Draw, raise, fire.  Draw – okay.  Raise – ah, that’s a bit wobbly.  Try again.  Raise, and hold steady.  Steady, dammit.  That’s better.  Slowly she deconstructs each phase, then tries again.  It’s better.  Not at all good, but better than the first set.  And more importantly, she’s still doing it, fixing the problem, all by herself.  Slowly she steadies up and her marksmanship improves.  By the last couple of clips she’s shooting more fluently.  It’s faintly possible that the last two magazines would almost have let her re-qualify.  She sighs deeply in relief, and becomes aware that there’s a tapping on the door.

“You okay, Kate?”

“Yes, just finished.”  She unlocks the door and lets Castle in. 

“What was the pause?” 

“My aim was off.  Needed to work out why.”  Castle grins in an irritatingly superior way. 

“I’ll win this bet.  Can’t wait to see what you’ll cook.  Can we have apple pie?”

“I thought you said you wanted takeout?”

“You weren’t listening?”  He smiles salaciously.  “I said I liked the sort I take out her clothes.  When I win this bet you cook, and then I get takeout.”

“ _When_ you win, Castle?”  Kate raises a very disbelieving eyebrow.  “That’s a little over-confident, isn’t it?  When I win I’ll remind you about that.”

“No chance, Beckett.  I’ll win, and you’ll cook.”  He’s gradually been prowling closer to her.  “But right now I think we should go back to mine for takeout.”  And he catches her in and stops any chance of protests by kissing her.

Unfortunately he can’t keep kissing her, breath and leaving the range being necessary, and the instant he has to stop she starts to argue.

“I am not coming back to the loft.  Not tonight.”  She’s adamant.  Nothing’s mended, and she is _not_ going to rub noses in the changes Castle’s making.  “Why are you so determined to shove this in your family’s face?”

Castle looks bewildered.  “What d’you mean?  What’s wrong with you coming back to mine?”

“Castle.”  She’s very firm.  “Your family are not entirely happy about me just coming to dinner.”  He nods, reluctantly.  “Don’t you think that me coming back for – er – obvious reasons is going to upset them?  They’re having a hard enough time with dinner without rubbing their noses in anything more.  Let them get used to it slowly.”  He seems a little more convinced.  “It would be horrible.”  She thinks of a clinching argument.  “It’ll be so uncomfortable that we wouldn’t have any fun. Come to mine instead.”  Ah, that hit home.  It immediately becomes apparent, though, that it didn’t hit quite hard enough.

“I want you at mine.” 

He doesn’t understand why this is suddenly so important to him.  What Kate’s saying is utterly sensible and understandable, but he really, really wants to see her in his home, in his bed.  Oh.  In his territory.  Another thoroughly possessive impulse that he hadn’t seen developing.  He chases it a little further, and brings it down.  Kate was running away, or backing off, so… he wasn’t going to let that happen, so… he wants to bring her back to him in an entirely unmistakable way.  Okay, but that doesn’t _need_ to be at his.  Except that he wants to – oh.  Show her off as his, put bluntly.  Just like in the bar with the team, last night.  She’s absolutely right.  He’s trying to rub everyone’s nose in it, because he wants to show everyone that she’s his.  And in the process he would entirely have failed to notice – has entirely failed to notice - that he’d be making matters at home far worse.  How on earth has he got himself into a state where Kate I-don’t-talk-about-things Beckett has a better grasp of his family’s dynamics than he does?

“You’re right,” he says at last.  “We shouldn’t go to mine.”  He puts on an appealing, hopeful, pleading expression.  “Let’s go to yours.”  And then he drops it.  “I want my takeout.  I’m hungry.”  He leans her back into the wall and presses against her, sliding a hand behind her head to hold her at the right angle to kiss her deeply, and takes her mouth until he’s sure that she’s… hungry, too.  Definitely time to leave.  Maybe he’ll be able to think sensibly later.  Much later.  When he’s cleared his head.

Cuddled up cosily, considerably later, with a rather entrancingly underclad Kate is still not precisely conducive to a cleared head or sensible thinking, Castle finds.  And he guesses that it’s true what they say about takeout, you want more pretty quickly.  He gives up on speculation and decides on seduction instead.  It’s not an unappreciated choice.

* * *

 

Eventually, however, Castle has to go home, pursued by his thoughts.  He’s having a hard time moving past the simple and primitive thought of _I want my partner in my bed_ to an intelligent analysis of how to achieve that without causing unnecessary upset.  He has no illusions as to the necessary level of upset it will cause.  He hasn’t laid down what he wants for a long time.  Hasn’t needed to.

He takes himself back to his earlier musings at the signing.  He’s let others manage his personal life, because it’s easier, and because as long as he could follow Kate around and his family was safe and happy there were no decisions or conflicts to manage.  And half the time now he’s let others manage his PR schedule too, and a whole lot of other things, because his input doesn’t seem required.  He pays some very talented professionals to deal with all of that, and they’re very, very good at what they do.  Even if Gina and Paula can be world-class hardasses, they take care of his best interests.  He makes sure the end result is what he wants, or is happy with, and doesn’t worry too much about what they want him to do to get there, as long as it’s legal, honest and relatively decent.  The only thing he still has wholly under his own control is his books, because nobody gets to alter how he writes but him.  He thinks he’s been slipping out of taking responsibility for his own life for a while now.  Possibly since he last wrote Derrick Storm.

It’s the small hours of the morning, but he makes himself a coffee and settles in his study to carry on with this line of thought.  He’s been avoiding decisions, hard choices, responsibility.  So everyone around him has made them, taken responsibility instead of him.  And honestly, can he blame them?  He’s surrounded by people who know what they want to do with their lives, who have a permanent purpose and a sharp focus.  The precinct catches killers, and other criminals.  His mother wants to act, and then to teach acting.  His daughter wants to go to the best college possible, and she may or may not yet have a career in mind but she’s certainly focused.  And then there’s Kate.  If ever there was a person with a purpose and a focus, long past the point of any common sense or realism, it’s been Kate.  Dedicated, not to say obsessive.  For three years, he’s watched that purpose drive her, and followed along behind.

And he?  Well, he writes.  That’s his purpose, and his focus.  When inspiration hits – he thinks back to that moment three years ago when inspiration struck him like a missile – all he can do is write.  He’d said it to Dr Burke: _I went home and wrote and wrote and wrote.  It was all there_.  When it isn’t all there, though, he lets the world flow by him, floats along on the soothing current of more money than he knows what to do with, a loving if mildly dysfunctional family, and his friends in the Twelfth, waiting for things to happen for him, in the way they always have, ever since he wrote that first best-seller and found himself to be a success, and shortly after a celebrity.  That’s it, isn’t it?  Luck, or fate, whichever, has fallen his way, right up till the moment Kate was shot: his best-sellers, his daughter, and Kate.  He hasn’t needed to make hard choices, really, except now. 

Even the mistakes he’s made with Kate, it’s the same thing, really.  He didn’t want to take the hard decision, preferred to drift along and hope she would decide to turn to him, see him there.  Find another focus: him, not her mother.  And then he saw her shot: couldn’t save her; the decision would have been made for him, had she died more permanently.  Looking at it all that way, it’s not hard to see why she felt she had to make decisions about them, because he certainly wasn’t doing it.  So she did what she thought best, because he didn’t do anything.  It’s the same with his family.  He hasn’t needed to make decisions, really: mostly they’ve made them and he’s followed along.  He was upset that Alexis was considering early entry to college, especially on unusually immature and really rather ill-considered grounds, but he didn’t object, didn’t tell her that she should wait.  So she made the decision for herself, and he’s lost the chance to stop her. 

He goes back a step further, looks, unhappily, at his love life.  Meredith – well, she was pregnant, and he wouldn’t choose to leave his child.  But after that, he didn’t care enough to keep her, and she didn’t care enough to try.  Gina – she’d managed his books and she managed him right into a wedding, because he didn’t see a good reason not to go along with it.  A few pretty, plastic women, in between then and now.  And then, the last three years.  Ellie Monroe, Gina again, Meredith occasionally.  All because he wouldn’t take the hard choice to admit and go after what he really wanted:  Kate Beckett.

It’s no surprise that his family doesn’t trust him to take care of himself where his love life’s concerned.  He doesn’t.  It’s a long history of failed relationships and getting hurt, or occasional, casual physical relief.  Why should they think that it’ll be any different this time?  Okay, Kate’s been around for three years, but however long he’s been _mooning_ – he winces, remembering Gina’s phrase with a stab of pain – over her he knows that she didn’t let herself realise, or couldn’t believe, (however wrongly) he was serious for most of it.  But his family don’t know that.  Just like they don’t know how much he hid from Kate, because they saw his feelings, which he didn’t show her.  Just like they don’t know the whole of what happened this summer.  So all they see is that he’s been hurt, again, more than once in fact, and they don’t see his share of responsibility for it, only Kate’s actions.  Kate’s admitted her responsibility, to him.  He’s admitted his, to her.  Neither of them has admitted any of it to anyone else.  Nor should they, nor should they need to.  On that, he’s firmly in the privacy camp.

Now he’s trying to change: trying to make decisions – or at least not have them simply made for him,  he wants to be part of a sensible discussion to come to an agreed conclusion – trying to have what he wants without being deflected.  It’s completely different from where he was.  Not surprising, really, that it’s not going down well.  But he has to change, or accept that he’ll just be a bystander as other people bend his life to their mould.  Except he can’t even do the latter, now, because he has to choose.  Choose to do what he wants, or choose his family’s view of what he should do, or Kate’s view of what he should do.  His family want him to stop following Kate, stop taking risks, and were quite prepared to pull him away from her to achieve that.  Kate thinks he should put her behind his family, and was quite prepared to push him away from her to achieve a result that she thought was right, even when she still wanted him with her.  And he wants Kate.  Equal with his family.  No.  Not equal.  Part of his family. 

So.   _Time to change, Rick.  You want it, you need to do something about it._

Time to grow up.


	56. Till somebody shoots you down

His coffee grows cold in front of him as the clock sweeps through two and reaches three.  He has to change, he has to grow up, start taking charge of his own life and what he wants.  But that doesn’t mean that he has to hurt his family along the way, rebel like some teenager just for the sake of it.  Kate had called him on it: he was trying to push everyone into accepting the new Rick, without working out why they might not believe it.  Well, she’d been right.  But it doesn’t change the fact that he wants her to be able to come to his and be as relaxed as at her own apartment.

So he needs to mend matters with his family first, which will not be achieved through a quick chat and group hug, unhappily.  He looks at the clock, his chilled mug, and decides that the sensible thing to do might be to sleep on all of this, let it settle.  Whimsically, he considers whether sleep is like isinglass, clarifying thoughts as if they were wine.  If so, he’d better take some of it.  He falls into bed and is asleep in instants, his overstuffed brain needing simply to… stop.  Stop analysing, stop thinking, stop trying to fix things.  Leave it all till later.  He dreams of Kate next to him, and wakes to find he’s clutching a stray pillow tightly to his chest.  It’s not at all the same.

* * *

 

Breakfast is comfortingly normal, Alexis bright-eyed and ready for school, his mother bleary-eyed and complaining about the noise from the juicer – what _had_ she been doing after he left last night?  He’d better check the wine rack – and he perfectly content to be part of it.  Except he isn’t, any more.  He wants Kate there too, part of it.  And he can’t have it, not now, not yet.  She won’t stay, no matter how much she cares, until his family relationships are resolved, and he can’t force his family to accept her at that level, he can only wait till it’s all worked through.  In fact, he can’t just fix this.

Perhaps he can deal with it through his own form of desensitisation – if Martha and/or Alexis see him with Kate, see Kate, often enough then they will grow used to it, to her, to their relationship.  It’s going to be slow, but then once trust is destroyed it takes longer than an oak tree to grow back.  Not tonight, though.  He has the final book party – he celebrates that milestone – and then he thinks he’d like to see Kate.  If she’s in.  He’ll need to check that: she could easily be meeting the boys and unofficially solving cases for them.  Still, that’s no deterrent to going to her apartment afterwards. 

Tomorrow.  Definitely.  She should come again tomorrow, if she will.  He’ll ask her tonight; perhaps work out a plan with her.  He’s got time, now that the book parties are almost done.  He’s got time for many things, now the PR schedule is diminishing rapidly.  On which thought, he realises that breakfast is done, his coffee has mysteriously vanished from its cup, and he needs to go and write; not because Gina is snapping at his heels, not because he’s missed his deadlines – for once he’s on track - but because his story is pressing at his brain and he will achieve nothing else – indeed, nothing - until he’s evicted his characters from their lease in his head.

The only thing that could distract Castle from his writing when he’s in this mood is a text from Kate mentioning that she’s going to Central Park and, though it’s perfectly obvious from it that she wants him to come, it leaves it wholly open to him whether he’s able to join her or not.  Well, Kate might think it leaves it open.  He doesn’t.  And it’ll give him a chance to arrange this evening.  Just for once, he thinks, they could have an evening together which doesn’t involve stress, strain, emotional upheaval and in-depth conversations; one which is light and fun.  He spends the majority of the journey to Central Park considering the best route for the maximisation of fun, until he finds that further consideration will be likely to cause sufficient constriction to spoil that possibility. 

Kate is definitely receptive to the idea, but only after both seeing her team and another session at the range.  She’s not going to let this bet go by without making strenuous efforts to win it.  It’s not just the thought of an excellent dinner, though that certainly isn’t nothing, but she’s more than mildly irked by Castle’s calm assumption the previous day that he’d win without too much effort.  She’s not having that.

And so she spends the evening with the team, being Detective Beckett to the top of her bent, remembering and re-establishing the cop she used to be; and then time at the range, focusing on a steady hand and shot placement, and concentrating so hard that the idea of someone raising a gun against her is blotted out completely.  At the end of an hour she’s nearly happy with the results: sure that she can re-qualify – if only just.  By the time she has to re-qualify, still almost a week away, she thinks, there will be no doubt at all.  She leaves the booth with an unreadable, impenetrable and thoroughly deceiving blank face and refuses to tell Castle how it went, whether her scores are improving and even how many clips she used, though she’s sure he’ll simply ask the range staff when she’s out of earshot.  Or not out of earshot, given that this is Castle.  Still, his insatiable curiosity is raging and it’s sweet revenge to see him puzzling over her performance.

When they arrive at Kate’s apartment, Castle having quizzed and questioned and queried all the way back until she’d refused even to speak to him, it takes him approximately five minutes, which not co-incidentally is the length of time it takes them to ride the elevator, enter her home and shut the door, to come up with a new way to try to extract answers.

That doesn’t work either.  But it’s a lot more fun than any other interrogation method he might have tried, even if finally it’s counterproductive because neither of them is capable of producing coherent speech, and then Kate’s asleep.  Kate doesn’t seem to talk in her sleep, Castle notes.  At least she’s consistent.  Well, if he can’t convince her to stay in his loft, he can stay here for a while.  He sets his phone alarm for a time he’d rather not see from the waking up end of the day, cuddles into her and is shortly asleep himself.

* * *

 

When Castle’s alarm goes off and he realises that he has to leave this nice, warm, delightfully occupied bed for the thin grey chill of a late September morning, and furthermore that Kate is regarding him through one sleepy, half-opened eye with an expression that tells him that her next move will be to snuggle back down and return to slumber – which is _so_ not fair – he remembers that he wants her to come to his for dinner tonight.  He wakes her up rather more inventively than he’d intended and convinces her that dinner will be less stressful than two days ago, and even promises, under a rather unusual form of duress, that he won’t cross-examine her following her session at the precinct range.  And, though curiosity nearly kills him, he doesn’t.  Though he doesn’t like the sense that he’s turning into the proverbial cat.

* * *

 

Castle’s been in his study writing all afternoon and into the early evening, so absorbed in his latest chapters that he barely hears the door.  Everyone knows that Kate’s coming, everyone is just about accepting it without an argument, and he can vaguely hear Martha and Alexis in the living room, enthusiastically discussing musical theatre, no doubt with words, songs and gestures, and Martha’s starring  roles, (really?  He doesn’t believe that.) so he expects that one of them will get the door.  He comes out the study just in time to watch a perfectly framed live-action shot of Alexis opening the door, Kate taking two steps inside, and Martha turning round with a prop gun in her hand in one misplaced move, straight into Kate’s line of sight as it all goes dreadfully, horribly wrong.  

For one flaring instant of sheer rage he thinks that his mother staged this, before he comes to his senses and realises that she’d never do that.

He never, ever wants to hear that noise from Kate ever again.  He doesn’t think he’s moved that fast across his loft in his life since a baby Alexis started trying to climb the open stairs.  He’s too late to stop her freezing, deathly white, then slumping, only half-controlled, to the floor to sit, dropping her head on her knees; too late to stop the flashback; just... too late.  By the time he reaches her she’s already shaking and locked into the memory.  He knows what’s happening: he’s seen it before.  He’d really hoped that he would never have to see it again. 

All he can do is lift her to her feet and, since this emphatically does _not_ require an audience, half-carry her through into his room and place her very delicately on the bed, propping her against the pillows and covering her curled form with a comforter; leaving her to recover alone.  He hasn’t forgotten – it’s not a memory to be swiftly forgotten - how she couldn’t bear him touching her during this stage at the range, and he intends to be back in moments.

Martha’s frozen, shroud-white, across the room, looking absolutely, genuinely, appalled by what she’s inadvertently achieved.  No acting here.  Alexis hasn’t moved either, except to shut the door. 

“What the hell was going on, Mother?”  But it’s Alexis who speaks.  Martha seems entirely incapable of speech.

“Grams was telling me about when she was in Annie Get Your Gun.” 

She looks at her father.  “Is …that… why Detective Beckett wouldn’t...”  She stops.  It’s utterly clear from Castle’s face that that’s whyKate wouldn’t talk to them about her issues.

Castle looks between both women.  “Yes.”  That one word, and all its implications, sinks; massive, malevolent leviathan; between them all.  “ _That’s_ why I told you about her flashbacks instead of her telling you.  So _that_ wouldn’t happen.  Now you see.”  He glances at Martha. 

“Richard, I would never have…”  She’s stammering, horrified, apologising.  He can’t take the time to hear her contrition, absolve her, now.

“Mother, I know this was a total accident.  I know you wouldn’t ever have done that deliberately.  But right now please will you put that prop somewhere I never, _ever_ see it again and then find somewhere else to be for the next hour, because I don’t think Kate is going to be in any way better if she sees you when I take her home.” 

He only just stops himself saying _given that you just pointed a gun at her_.  That really will not help anything.  Mending this is going to be as hard as mending shattered Lalique: one step beyond impossible.  He’d only just thought that he could get his family comfortable with Kate.  In one unpredictable, unimaginable accident it’s all flipped round.  Now he doesn’t see how Kate’s going to be comfortable with his family, any time in the next few months.  It took her six weeks back in the city even to lift a gun, and only an insane desire to prove herself to herself, her fearsome willpower and her request for and his provision of unquestioning, constant support, has brought her to be able to fire it close to accurately, nearly a fortnight later.  She might have that same support still, but she has no incentive at all to force herself to see his family, who have just seen the worst of her weakness, in the same hell-for-leather, solve-the-problem, fashion as she’s used on making herself a cop again.  He doesn’t expect her even to suggest it.

“Alexis, please will you get a town car for me to be here in thirty minutes, going to Kate’s apartment.  I know you know the address.”  He ignores her flinch.  “I’ll be very late.  I’ll see you both tomorrow.”  The forced politeness and very gentle voice is the only defence he has against screaming at them both _Why were you playing with a toy gun when you knew Kate was coming?_   It won’t help: it wasn’t their fault, it’s nothing that they wouldn’t all discuss, mess around with, and be entertained by on any normal day, and yet he wants to shout and yell and blame them both, utterly unfair as that would be.  He can feel both their gazes on his back as he shuts the door behind him and returns to Kate.

She’s still tightly wound in on herself, breathing harsh and ragged, but when he puts a large warm palm against her back she doesn’t pull away.  Unfortunately she also isn’t ready to unfurl, or move, or speak.  He thinks she might be crying, but he can’t tell that either.  He strokes her hair and when she starts to sit up lifts her gently against him and simply holds her tight against his broad chest, petting and soothing her as if she were a child.

“It’s okay, Kate.  ‘S all okay.  It was just a stage prop.  You’ll be okay.  We can fix this.”  Somehow, some way.  They can fix this, together.  They have to.

When Kate stops shaking all she says, very quietly, is, “I want to go home.  Will you take me home?”  It sounds very like a plea.

“Already arranged.  There’s a car waiting.”  When they exit Castle’s room and study there’s nobody else visible.  Castle’s not sure Kate would have noticed if there had been a circus troupe performing as she goes past, but he’s still grateful that Alexis has recovered her usual tact and had removed herself as well as making sure that his mother had disappeared.

Castle takes Kate down to the town car parked at the entrance, never releasing her from his protective clasp, doesn’t bother asking her if she wants him to come with her – especially as she’s already made that clear – and returns to holding her as close as possible.  She doesn’t say a word, all the short way home, even so: doesn’t curl in, doesn’t respond in any way; her eyes closed.  She’s shut down, he expects, to give herself time to review and recover; in a way that isn’t quite as terrifying as the first times, but is still no less uncomfortable – he’s a long way past feeling hurt by this reaction - for being completely necessary.

Matters are marginally better when they arrive and Kate tucks herself in against him, gripping his hand almost painfully; still soundless, but clearly taking comfort from his presence.  He makes very sure that he doesn’t lose contact with her, all the way inside; doesn’t suggest that he moves away from her even for long enough to make a drink.  He’s not entirely sure that she would let go, anyway.  It would be very gratifying, if it weren’t for the cause, that she feels she can lean on him, even now that she is so much closer to who she used to be; that she’s not pulling away as she recovers.  He settles them into the couch in a position that won’t result in cramp and enables him to continue in his appointed role of comforter.

Eventually Kate raises her head with a very shaky almost-smile.  “I knew Martha wasn’t happy, but is she really so mad with me that she wants to shoot me?”  Castle recognises that as an attempt at a rather bleak joke but he winces at it anyway.  That’s all rather too close to his initial, horrible, unfair thought.

Kate hadn’t expected to be faced with a drawn gun at Castle’s loft.  Nor had she expected it to trigger a flashback, though she would have expected, certainly, to startle.  She’d mistakenly thought, again, that all her progress would leave her largely healed in all respects, not just a few.  She hadn’t expected to end up back at the beginning.  She’d thought, all too briefly, that she might have problems if a suspect drew on her.  Maybe she should have thought about that sooner, and in rather more detail.

Desensitisation to this new trigger is likely to be more difficult even than shooting was.  She wraps as closely in as she can manage, soothed by the calm of another.  She admits to herself that Castle’s size and strength provide considerable solace, of which she is currently much in need, and then takes full advantage of his presence; reviewing, still, the event, the result, the difference.  _Not dead, this time_ , she thinks with gallows humour, much as she’d said in Finnerty’s, all those weeks ago.  She stops hard on that thought.  It seems like all those weeks, but actually it’s less than three.  Hardly over two.

It’s barely over four weeks since she admitted her issues, and look how far she’s come: going out into the city; running just as far as she used to; (still no sparring, though) she can shoot, almost; no flashbacks or startlements in the city or in the Park, nor from shooting.  Nor from Castle.  There’s progress: from flashback trigger to – well.  Friend, mainstay, lover.  And so very, very much more.  She relaxes imperceptibly, loosens – but doesn’t remove - her grip, rearranges her position to lean more comfortably against his firm shoulder.

Castle senses the drop in adrenaline and tension surrounding Kate and rumbles approvingly in the general vicinity of her head; slackens his arms to accommodate her shifting stance.

“Wanna talk about it?” he ventures softly.

“It was a flashback: that’s not a new story.”  There’s a razor-edge, not directed at him, but at herself, under that comment.  He’ll leave it for now, till she’s less raw from it.

“Mother… It was an accident.”  Kate flicks a whiplash glance at him, hearing his own effort to be convincing.

“I know that.  Your mother is” – she pauses, clearly looking for an inoffensive description.

“Over-dramatic?  Emotional?  Tempestuous?  Excitable?”

“- protective, but she’s not unkind.”  That’s a benefice he didn’t expect.  It would have been understandable – totally incorrect, but wholly understandable – if Kate had suspected, or believed, that his mother and/or Alexis had concocted that scene to test her truth.  She’s quite sufficiently professionally cynical about motive to do so.  That she hasn’t, argues that she has a less jaundiced view of his relatives than he, momentarily, had.  If she had taken a different view…  He quails at the potential for disaster – as if this evening hadn’t been wholly disastrous already – implicit in that thought, and then stops on the idea that Kate is not blaming his family, is, in fact, crediting them with consideration.  Despite the evidence of what they think of her.

“Now what, Kate?”


	57. Went the distance, now I'm not going to stop

She doesn’t answer for some while, considering again the event, her reaction, possible ways to desensitise.  When she finally speaks, it’s obvious that all her thinking doesn’t appear to have assisted.

“I don’t know,” she says, the tang of defeat acid on her lips.  “Unless all of you pull guns on me at random intervals” – there’s a sharp negating movement – “for the next week, I don’t know.”  She feels diminished, impotent in a way she hasn’t since the first attempt at the range.  If she couldn’t cope with Martha accidentally pulling a toy gun on her, how will she overcome her reaction so that she doesn’t collapse when it happens, as it inevitably will, on the job: with a real gun, and the prospect of real bullets flying, really aimed at her.  Ah hell.  She slumps back into Castle.  Unusually, he doesn’t seem to have any ideas – good, bad or crazy – either.  That’s even more depressing.  Couldn’t he at least have proposed some lunatic brain-washing hypnosis theory to fix it? 

“Maybe Ryan or Esposito will have an idea?” Castle ventures, a touch uncertainly.  Kate chews that over.  Espo knows the whole sorry tale, anyway, so what’s to lose?

“Might as well ask.  Can’t hurt.” _Any more than it does._   “But not now. I can’t deal with any more tonight.”  If she could, she’d crawl inside him, be safe and warm, secure and protected; stay there for ever.  Suddenly, she’s so very tired: tired of trying, tired of scaling each precipice and finding only another cliff-face ahead, never a sun-blazed summit.  She settles for tugging his arms more tightly around her torso and curling her feet up under her so she’s half-lying on him.  She allows her eyelids to close, only for a moment, absorbing the knowledge that she can lean on someone else; is doing so; needs to do so.  She’s not done that in any other relationship since the day her mother died.  Then again, this doesn’t resemble any other relationship she’s had in any way at all.  For a start, she’s committed to making this one work.  _All in, Kate._

“Wouldn’t you be happier tucked up in bed?”  There’s no hint of the seductive tone that a line like that should carry; only concern.  Kate’s too tired even to construct a flippant response.  The next thing she knows, though, she’s being swept up and carried to her bedroom.  It rouses her sufficiently to splutter crossly at him, especially when she’s dropped ungracefully, if gently, in the middle of her bed.

“What are you _doing_?”

“Putting you to bed.”  He smirks evilly.  “Note my amazing self-control and tactful use of language.”  She raises an eyebrow, which only makes it halfway before resuming its normal position.  “I didn’t say _taking_ you to bed.”  She’d growl, but she’s still too wrung out, though she’s recovering somewhat.  What next?  Will he magic up a pair of fluffy pyjamas too, those ones with integral feet that are put on cute small children, just to complete the image?

Castle thinks that a little Beckett-baiting is more likely, now, to help her return to normal than more sympathy.  He turns to her chest of drawers.

“Where do you keep your sexy nighties?”  He has a thought.  “Do you wear nighties?”  She hasn’t worn much, so far.

The eyebrow makes a considerably stronger effort to depress his pretensions.  “I do have nightwear, Castle,” she sighs resignedly.  He doesn’t miss the word choice.  “Right here.”  She sits up, reaches under her pillow and pulls out a ratty, faded T-shirt that looks around five sizes too large and a pair of rather tattered boy-shorts in some very soft fabric.  His face falls.

“ _That’s_ what you wear in bed?”  He sounds as disappointed as if she’d told him there was no more chocolate ice-cream in the world.

“I would do.”  She pauses meaningfully, recovering herself further through familiar, appreciated, banter.

“Mmm?”

“If I were alone.  Or if you ever gave me a chance to put them on.”  And right then there is something that’s almost back to a Beckett smirk.  “Now.  Put your hands in the air and step away from my underwear drawer.”  Castle jumps and quickly pulls his hands away, looking hopefully at it in case it will open itself for him.  Kate glares at him until he steps away from it.  “And another step.”  He obeys.  “Keep walking away.”  He takes another few steps and stops.  The bed is in his way.

“Now what, Kate?”

“Now you sit down on the bed.”

“And?”  Castle looks rather adorably confused.  Confusion is not allayed when Kate hugs him hard and then kisses him.  When she lets him come up for air, she stays close, her head on his shoulder and her arms around him, holding him in as if he’d dissolve if she didn’t.  This is all rather uncommon, he thinks.  This isn’t even the same as her actions following the flashback at the range.  Then, he’d asked if he could take her home, this time she’d asked him to; then, she’d cuddled close but nothing more, now she’s almost clinging to him.  At least as far as Kate ever clings: that’s not her nature.  And then, she certainly wasn’t kissing him.

“And I’d like you to stay tonight.”  That’s easy.  He’d been planning to.  Still, it’s a peculiarly heartfelt request.  He hasn’t heard that intonation before, not even when she asked him to stay last time.  This is a long way into _I need you_.   Which is also rather uncommon.

“Sure.”  If it weren’t Kate, he’d swear that was a sigh of relief, before she kisses him again.

“Shall we get some dinner?”  He carefully doesn’t use the word _takeout_.  Kisses or not, she’s had one hell of a shock.  She can make any running she wants to, if she’s up to it, though that seems entirely unlikely.

“Okay.  Thai, pizza or mezze?”

“Thai.”

Dinner arrives swiftly, although, a little to Castle’s annoyance, Kate insists on – well, doesn’t give him even half a chance to object to her – paying.  He wants to give her things.  Lots of things.  Perhaps – who’s he kidding with _perhaps_ \- even one very specific thing, in due time.  But she won’t let him give her food, tonight.

“I was going to provide dinner tonight,” he mutters, disgruntled.

“Another time, Castle.  You’ll have plenty chances.”  She turns to finding drinks and plates, a bottle of wine.  She can’t face the range tonight.  Her back’s to him, so she doesn’t see the quick surprise that she’s given up the idea of shooting today.  Her partial recovery from the earlier flashback might have spurred her to go, as poor a call as that would have been.

Dinner involves mutual raids on each other’s choices, followed by loud, insincere pleadings of innocence or provocation, and once finished Castle encourages Kate to curl in.  Food has fuelled an idea.

“Kate, are you sure it was the gun that spooked you, or could it just be that you weren’t expecting to be confronted by a gun at my loft?”

Kate looks at Castle in bewilderment.  “What d’you mean?”  But her mind is beginning to work, sparked, as so often previously, by an idea he’s thrown out.  She scrunches up her nose in thought, chews her lip.  He leaves her to it; waiting for her to unlock the pattern of events in this new light.  He can’t unravel it: doesn’t have the connections or the mental background.  Doesn’t have the scars.

She tries out the taste of the thoughts in her head before she even thinks about speaking: was she set off simply by the fact of the gun being aimed at her, or was it the shock of apparently being drawn on in a safe place?  Or both?  Because if it was the gun itself, that’s a huge issue that she needs to work through with Dr Burke as soon as possible: she cannot go back on fieldwork while that’s unresolved.  If it was the location, the disconnect between the danger of a drawn gun while being in a place of ostensible safety,  then it’s possible that she can desensitise against the gun by imagining, imaging, the picture of a gun being raised against her in police work: it’s not as if she doesn’t have innumerable memories that she can use to do that.  Very cautiously, she thinks of the counterfeiters drawing on her, sufficiently long ago not to be as sharp-taloned a memory as a sniper at the cemetery, and immediately draws in a shivering breath.

But she isn’t flashing back.  Not quite.  She touches the same memory again, stretches it out, looks back into the minutes before, and after: Castle pulling a gun – her backup piece - in front of her, she pulling a gun immediately, and two counterfeiters pulling yet more guns on them both.  Cop work, weapons in play, in a situation she understands, a situation where she knows and expects the risks, and, she recalls (a point so basic that she doesn’t normally think about it), wearing a vest.  Which she wasn’t, in the cemetery – who wears a vest to a funeral?  She can do this, the same way she desensitised from Castle over the summer: watch the picture in her head until it doesn’t hurt anymore: then she can repress the flashback just long enough that she could force the panic back for the single moment that would be all she’d need to aim and fire.  The question is, will that be enough, or is there a problem with facing a gun at all?

“I need to talk to Espo.  Tomorrow.”  She flips off the couch, searching for her phone; taps out a rapid text, all sharp movement and hunting a solution.  “He should be able to meet around lunchtime, if I ask him now.  He might have an answer.”  The burst of energy dissipating rapidly, she sits back down, yawning, cuddles in again. 

Castle firmly pushes back an edge of jealousy that anyone else should be able to provide Kate with help that he cannot.  He’s been here before, and it is unreasonable and stupid to think that he, a non-cop and, at least in theory, a non-combatant, can provide a better answer than Esposito to a cop – and gun - problem.  He consoles himself by remembering that only a little while ago, and, he notices, now, Kate is again curled as close into him as it is possible to be while still fully clothed. (they’ll be closer, later, he knows.  Ratty sleep T-shirt notwithstanding.  He’s sure she’s got other, sexier, nightwear.  Nobody with underwear like hers has only ratty sleepwear.)

It’s not late; but, just like last time, the surge of adrenalin and the hard crash as it dissipates has left Kate, brief instant of action aside, mentally exhausted and a little sleepy.  She makes her temporary excuses and leaves, to return shortly, swathed in an exceedingly unglamorous but exceedingly comfortable woolly robe, and cuddle back in.  It may be unglamorous, but when he drops his arm back around her Castle finds it to be intensely strokable.  So he does, almost instinctively, gentle, soothing, hypnotising; feeling the remnants of strain fall away from her, the loosening in her neck and shoulders, full relaxation of her posture.  She’s as boneless as a cat, as delicately relaxed and receptive to his petting – and when she’s back in business she’ll be as focused, as dangerous, as a stalking tiger.  In fact, it extremely belatedly occurs to Castle, Kate in her full Beckett incarnation may just be the apex predator, top of the food chain.  He only hopes that he’s not simply prey.

Perhaps if he goes back to taking charge of his life, in a way he hasn’t in many years, he can be stronger than the rabbit he’s often been.  Even tigers need their ambush around them, sometimes: Esposito, Ryan, Lanie, and he, all held together by Kate’s burning bright purpose: catching killers.  But now, perhaps, she has another purpose, alongside.  He’ll dare seize the fire.  Hard upon that thought, he shifts her bodily from his side into his lap, where he can keep her held tightly, use his size and the power of his emotions to show that he _is_ enough: enough support, enough challenge, enough to match her.  Enough love.

Together, they’re more, and can be more yet.  He may have needed her impetus to make him more than the shallow, wisecracking, playboy he used to be, but just as much she needed him to break her out her carapace, save her from the foxhole she was burying herself in, hiding from the emotional shelling of her mother’s murder.  Together, they fill each other’s voids and vacancies; dovetailing into a solid joint.  More, stronger, together, than either of them would, could, ever be apart.

And yet, it’s still all so frighteningly fragile, so like to founder on some hidden shoal, still sailing too close to rocky shores.  He still needs to show he’s prepared to fight for this, them; and so, in so many ways, does she, still so inclined to back away when she thinks something else should take precedence: not, now, her mother’s murder, maybe, but his feelings: deciding by herself what he should feel and then making the choice for him.  No more.  He’d called her on it, twice now; he suspects he’ll have to call her on it many times more before her habit is broken.  He’ll do it as often as he needs to, and she’ll call him on his evasions in return.

And yet, again, neither of them have shared their summer agonies; shared their letters; shared once more the words that would leave no further room for doubt.   It may be implicit in each touch and glance, but that’s as ephemeral as a child’s bubbles, as fragile as a hold on life after the bullet rips.  More than just _her_ heart needs to heal.  That sniper’s bullet damaged both their hearts.

And yet, still yet, they’ve come so far, in not four weeks.  Here they are, in mutual peace, tucked close together: he’s been decisive about his wants, she’s been open about what she needs.  In each case, fulfilment has come from the other.  So maybe they’re good; maybe they’re fixed; maybe whatever mountain next needs scaled, they can belay each other.  For now, it’s far beyond sufficient.  In time, they’ll make it more.

Kate is half-dozing, disconnected from her usual focus and driving need to act, to do, to recover; lulled by warmth and strength to near-somnolence, mind drifting unanchored by a purpose.  Here and now, the lens of her life and work is closed.  Half-formed ideas pad softly in her head, gradually coalescing into one: that no matter what may happen, she cannot now imagine a life without Castle.  Soon, she thinks sluggishly, very soon, she might be able to share her letters. 

She wriggles in a little closer, playing unconsciously with the soft cotton at the open neck of his shirt, very content to be cosseted and protected.  It’s an unusual thing for her to want: her history having taught her that the only person who’ll protect her – is her.  But that’s just another aspect of the abandonment issue, really.  She knows, floating and un-self-censored in the soft comfort of another’s care, that Castle is a very protective man; knows that the only reason he hasn’t tried it on her in the same way that he protects his family is because she’s never previously indicated that she wants, needs or would appreciate someone else protecting her.  Not until this side of this summer.  To be truthful, though, she would never have wanted it any time previously, or perhaps she simply wouldn’t have let herself know it, buried it with the rest of her unspoken, unsatisfied needs.  Just another weakness to be hidden.  Instead, strangely, allowing this need to show, trusting Castle to meet it, seems to have brought them closer.

He’s still holding her tightly, pressing her in; reassuring rather than uncomfortable.  He’ll never trap her, or restrict her, or stop her being anything she could be.  But that doesn’t mean no compromises: she doesn’t want a doormat, she wants a partner.  So she needs to stop taking decisions about them alone, needs to talk to him before she sets her mind in stone.  She has few illusions, following her sessions with Dr Burke, about how difficult that might be: she’s been making decisions for herself since she was nineteen, generally without the benefit of anyone else’s input.  There’d been no-one capable of giving coherent input, even if she’d been inclined to listen to them.

She yawns again, the long sweep of her eyelashes brushing downward.  She’s so very, very tired now: adrenaline crash and her brief thinking leaving her bone-weary.

“I need to sleep, Castle.”  He’s not at all surprised.  But it’s only just ten, and he’s a night bird.   While cuddling up to Kate is acceptable under any and all circumstances, she’s not likely to be soothed to sleep if he’s wide awake, and she’s far too tired for any of the more pleasant activities he might use to induce his own sleepiness.  If she’d wanted that, he’d have known by now.  She’s not been slow, so far, to show it.  Still, there are other solutions.

“You said you wanted me to stay…?”

“Yes.  Please.”

“Here, or there?”  He makes a vague gesture in the direction of her bedroom.  Kate glances questioningly at him.  “Well, I can keep you like this, and you can fall asleep here; or we can go there; or you can go there and I’ll stay here for now.”  The last gets a full-on Beckett glare.  Clearly that’s a non-starter.  “But, either way, I’m not sleepy so do you mind,” he says plaintively, “if I at least borrow one of your books?  I can stare at you for ages, especially if I’m cuddling you, but you’ll complain I’m creepy if I do. And if I don’t have anything else to do with my hands” – he wiggles an eyebrow – “then I’ll end up braiding your hair and when you wake up you’ll be all frizzy.  You know I fidget.” 

She wakes up only just enough to decide that letting Castle be bored and fidgety is very dangerous.  She neither wishes to be frizzy, nor for him to have free rein.  She can think of any number of worrying things a bored Castle might do, especially if she isn’t awake to stop him.

“Book, then.  Book at bedtime,” she slurs.  But she doesn’t move so he can stand up to find one.


	58. Just as I thought it was going all right

“Kate, you have to let me find a book if we’re staying here.”  There’s no answer, and she’s soft and limp against him.  There is only one way to deal with that.  He stands up with her still in his arms and carries her back to her bed; folds the comforter back and slips her out of the robe.  At this point he stops dead.  It’s a great shame that she’s asleep.  _That_ is certainly not a scruffy T-shirt, or a pair of old, soft shorts.  _That_ is an invitation to sin. 

It seems that sleeping had not, perhaps, been the whole of Kate’s plan for this evening, though that’s where it’s ended up.  He puts her down very gently and surveys the view.  One Kate, sound asleep.  One filmy covering, in two small pieces – well, it’s not covering much: salient items only, and only just – constructed of minimal amounts of navy silk chiffon and lace.  Several miles of stunningly excellent legs.  Other topographical aspects, mmm.  He simply stands and admires, for quite some time.  Sleep is not the first thing on his mind, looking at the contents of the bed.  Eventually he pulls the comforter over temptation incarnate and wanders off to find a book.  Something that will take his mind off … other areas of his body.  He doesn’t think anything is likely to take his mind off all the areas of Kate’s body.  He wishes, very fervently, that she was awake.  He hadn’t been planning to leave before this.  Now he’s absolutely certain that the only way he’s leaving before Kate wakes up is if he’s forcibly removed.

He finds a couple of old-fashioned detective novels and takes them back to the bedroom with him, strips and washes to the extent possible and then slides into bed next to Kate so that, should she be upset, or (preferably) wake, he’ll be able to do something about it.  Quite some time later, during which time she has (thankfully) not been upset and (regrettably) not woken up, he switches out the small lamp he’s been using to read and curls round her, possessive arm over her body.  The chiffon, he thinks, is very tactile.  Irresistibly so.  He falls asleep still lightly stroking over her waist.

* * *

 

Sometime in the dark pre-dawn hours of the morning, Castle is half-woken by movement beside him, the swift fear that Kate’s slipped away from him, but when he reaches out Kate’s still there, and when he pulls her back in there’s no resistance.  The knowledge that she isn’t running away, that she’s still firmly within the nest of his body, soothes him back to sleep.

When he wakes again, at a rather more civilised hour, unusually Kate is still asleep, neatly curled up into a small space of bed.  He sits up against the pillows, notices that he’s occupying the middle of same bed, and deduces that he’s followed her across until she’s almost fallen out the other side.  Not very cool.  On the other hand, that _nightie_ – scrap of seduction, that’s not a nightie; great-grandmothers wear nighties; ah yes, negligee, that’s a better word – is still on Kate, and on view.  She’s beautiful, in sweats or shirts or sexy lingerie, but that _garment_ on Kate is still temptation incarnate, and he’s never been able to resist temptation.  Not when it involves Kate.  He runs an interrogatory hand over her ribs and down to her hip, noticing that she’s still a little underweight.  He should feed her more.  She should come by the loft more – oh.  He’d temporarily forgotten why he’s here; what had happened.  It must be the negligee, destroying brain cells.

His lustful thoughts are abruptly halted as he thinks about why Kate might not want – who’s he fooling: the chance that this is a mere _might not_ is very slim.  The chance that it’s an _absolutely no_ is quite high.  The likelihood that it takes some weeks, if not months, to get her to the loft without ensuring Martha, and possibly Alexis, are absent is infinite.  Which means she won’t be staying in his bed anytime soon, because while Martha might be out all night without telling him, if Alexis tries that he’ll ground her for a month.  And he’ll make it stick, because that he absolutely will not tolerate that while she’s still seventeen and living at home.  Not that he’s ever had to, but now if he needs to he will.  The present conflict has shaken his certainty that Alexis will always take the mature, sensible, intelligent course of action.

He supposes he’d better get used to this bed.  Not that there’s anything wrong with it, but it’s not his.  Then again, it’s got Kate in it, and she’s his.  He runs his palm over her again, and this time she uncurls and stretches a little, languorously, and when she opens her eyes and smiles it’s the _come-on_ smile he loves to see; that he’d thought, those first days in ICU, that he’d never see again; her hair spread across the pillow.  He’s seen it before, this last week, but somehow this morning it hits harder, because he’s stayed the whole night –  though he’s done that before, too - because she admitted she needed him.  And somehow that makes it all matter more, burn more brightly, gleaming through the night and the day, the dawn and the twilight.

She’s still smiling seductively, and he falls back into her space and over her and kisses her frantically, hard and deep and desperate, hands locked in her hair to hold her in while her mouth and body open under him, driving away his memory of her white and still in ICU.  She’s his, and he is never going to miss his chance again.  She’s where he’s made his stand.

* * *

 

Some while later, after a shower that was less notable for efficiency of washing than for enthusiasm, and after Kate’s found some rather less …stimulating… clothes, so that she can at least drink her coffee before anything else might happen, it’s clear to both of them that they need to have another discussion about the loft.  They’re sitting close together, companionably, when Kate opens the discussion.

“Now what do we do?”  Castle ignores the salacious round of answers inherent in that feed line, and replies seriously.

“What do you want to do?  You know I want you to be able to come to my loft, but seeing as my mother messed that up” – there’s more acid than he’d like in that clause – “I kinda expected that you’d want to wait a while before trying again.  I don’t reckon that she’ll be your favourite person this week.”  He doesn’t mention Alexis.  That’s just a by-product of the bigger issue, coming to the loft at all.  Besides which, he’d seen Alexis’s shocked face, very briefly, when Kate was sitting on the floor.  He doesn’t think Alexis is going to be any sort of a problem, any more.  His bigger problem is very likely going to be to keep both women backed off.  They’ll want, he thinks, to offer sympathy, or worse pity, and talk about it.  Kate won’t want sympathy, react appallingly to pity – not rudely, but she’ll simply shut down, shut out, ignore anything that might just possibly sometime in the next million years provoke an iota of pity, and that will spill over into everything else, including them – and she certainly won’t talk about it with his mother and daughter.  They’ve hardly given her the impression that they’d care, and she won’t believe that this has fundamentally changed their view.  Even though it has.  He’s perfectly, happily, sure of that.  He knows them. 

While Kate’s sipping her coffee and thinking about that, he continues his own line of thought.  First and ten, he needs to make absolutely sure that neither his mother nor Alexis open the subject in Kate’s presence.  He needs to be very, very clear about that.  Second and five, it would probably be sensible to review his mother’s collection of props for anything else triggering, and ask her to keep them well away from the main areas.  He won’t ask her to dispose of them; they’re her mementoes and memories and it wouldn’t be fair; but she’ll need to store them out of sight for a while.  He doesn’t think she’ll argue about that.  Third and three, he and Kate need to work out what she can tolerate, and how soon.  He hopes that all of that can achieve touchdown in his loft.

While they’ve been thinking, Kate’s phone has beeped, and it turns out to be Esposito, confirming lunch today.  Seems Ryan is otherwise occupied: he and Jenny have some things to do.  Espo’s added an acerbic comment on how whipped Ryan is.  Before she replies, though…

“Castle, don’t take this badly, but…”  He looks distressed.  “I need to see Espo on my own, okay?”  Now that’s odd.  He looks relieved.  What was he expecting?  “What did you think I was going to say?”

Castle wriggles uncomfortably under even the lightweight version of the Beckett interrogation gaze.  He’s not that keen on admitting his paranoid worries.  Kate simply waits, just like she’d do at the precinct, and just like any suspect eventually he talks. 

“I thought you were going to suggest – I dunno, space for the rest of the day, or a few days.  Or that you’re never going to come to the loft again.”  His face crumples worriedly.  “I’m sorry.  It’s stupid.  I just want…”  His words run down.

“I don’t need space.  From you, anyway.”  Kate pats his cheek fondly, and he puts a hand up to cover hers, hold it there.  “About the loft… that’s more difficult.  I need to see Esposito before I can talk about that.”  She doesn’t say anything more about what she’s intending to discuss with Esposito.  “Now, since we didn’t get to your range last night, how about you take me this morning?”

“Sure I’ll take you,” and Castle smiles wickedly and swoops in to take her mouth, leaving her breathless and mussed. 

“The range, Castle, the range.”  But she’s smiling and not objecting at all.  “Shall I meet you there in an hour or so?”

“Okay.  I’d better go home and change.”  He realises it’s Saturday and both women will be in the loft, probably.  If they are, they’ll want to talk, definitely.  “Um.  Can we make it a little later – eleven?”

Kate looks sidelong at him, but doesn’t query the change.  She suspects that he is intending to discuss the previous evening’s fiasco with his family, and she really doesn’t want to be involved in that.  She has no desire at all to talk about it with his family, ever.  She trusts him to keep her confidence – he’s managed it so far, with far more incentive to offload – and maybe there’ll be some better solution to the problem.  She certainly doesn’t have one, yet.  Perhaps Espo will help her distinguish between freaking at a gun per se, and freaking at an incongruous situation including a gun.

* * *

 

Castle reaches the loft rather earlier than he’d really hoped for, and finds Alexis mid-breakfast, rather later than she’d normally be, and his mother nowhere in sight.

“Hi, pumpkin.  Is Grams around?”

“Not yet.”  Alexis’s tone is resigned.  Castle looks around and spots the space where a bottle of red used to be, and shortly after the half-full bottle itself.  Ah.

“Good.”  Alexis shoots him a surprised glance.  “I want to talk to you without Grams.”  He’s had the whole way home to devise his strategy, and the first rule of this combat is divide and conquer.  “You saw what happened last evening.”  It’s not a question.

“Yes.  But Dad, why didn’t you or Kate tell us?”  It’s the same query from the time before, in a rather more demanding tone.

“Why should Kate or I need to tell you all the gory details, if I knew?”

“Because we’re your family.  We’ve the right to know what you’re doing.  And if you’d told us we’d not have worried about you so much.”  O-kaaay.  Where to start sorting this tangle out?  He opts for the easier point first.

“Alexis, you don’t need to know everything about me.  There are some things that I want to keep private, either for a time or totally.  Same as you do.  You didn’t exactly tell me about your first boyfriend for a while, did you?  And you and Grams don’t have a veto on what I do.”  Alexis rolls her eyes.

“Dad, you don’t take care of yourself.  We have to look after you.”  No. No, no, _no_.  He is not having this any more.

“Alexis, it’s not necessary.  It’s sweet, but I don’t need you to look after me.  I’ve managed to look after both of us, and Grams, until you were fourteen and started trying to keep us all straight.  You’re really good at it” – might as well keep this nice – “but especially when it comes to Kate you need not to.  You don’t understand how it is.”  As soon as the words leave his mouth he knows saying that was a mistake.  Alexis erupts at him.

“ _I_ don’t understand?  How old do you think I am?  Seven, still?  I’m seventeen.  I understand exactly what’s going on.  You’ve been in love with her for years and you’ve finally sorted things out between you.  But you won’t explain enough to me and Grams so we can sort things out with you, and _she_ never says anything to help us understand.  She doesn’t care what we think.  You refused to tell me anything before and let me go and see her and then you wouldn’t even support me after.  And now we have to watch you put her and her _privacy_ ahead of us, so when we finally see how bad everything is – through a total accident because you still didn’t tell us everything and she won’t tell us anything herself - you just take her home and stay with her?  We were really upset too last night and you stayed with her instead.  You don’t look after us.  If you were looking after us you’d tell us everything and maybe last night wouldn’t have happened.  If you were looking after us you’d have made _her_ explain to us.  If you were looking after us you wouldn’t go chasing after her and taking risks that could kill you.  It’s you who doesn’t understand, Dad.”

Castle has gradually been getting grimmer and grimmer as Alexis continues.  He waits till it’s clear that she’s finished, still looking him full in the face and not backing off at all, and then begins in a tone she’s never heard before.

“When you understand what it feels like to die, Alexis, then you might, just might, have the right to say anything about Kate.  Until then, you don’t.  Whatever you _think_ you might have the right to, Kate is not a member of this family, she’s an independent adult with her own life, and it’s none of your business how she deals with matters unless she’s dealing directly with you.  I don’t think you need to worry that’s going to happen any time soon.”  There’s an unintended bite to that.  

“She doesn’t have to fit your view of what she should be like.  You and Grams – accidentally, okay – managed to trigger a full re-run of dying for her, and it was damn lucky that it didn’t end up a lot worse than it was.  That was a relatively mild flashback, and you saw what it did to her.  If it had been worse, there’s every chance that it would have destroyed all the progress she’s made to get better.”  Alexis is white.  For once, Castle doesn’t care.  He is going to deal with this misconception of Alexis’s – that she can decide anything for him and for Kate – once and for all, however painful the next few minutes will be for both of them.

“If Kate doesn’t want to show off her scars to you, that’s her decision.  You’re not going to try to over-ride it because you’re unhappy about that.  You’re not going to over-ride our decisions about what to tell you because you think you’re owed more of an explanation.  You’re not.  I’ve told you everything you need to know.  The rest is private.  And while we’re on that topic, I told you not to interfere, and you went to see Kate off your own bat, so don’t bother saying I _let_ you.  I should have pulled you back from this idea that you know what’s best for me then, but I didn’t.  I don’t need you trying to protect me from my own decisions any more.”  He stops and looks hard at Alexis.

“Just because I’m with Kate doesn’t mean I love you or Grams any less in any way.  I still love you both just as much as ever.  Kate needed me more than you did last night.  A re-run of dying trumps upset.  If it had been reversed, I’d have stayed with you.  I’ll talk to Grams later.”  He stops again.  He hates this, but if he’s ever to have control over his own life it has to be done.  He should have done it three years ago, when it wouldn’t have hurt Alexis.  Another way in which not making his own decisions has messed up his happy life.

“I want you to think really hard about what I’m saying and why you’re reacting to Kate and this whole situation the way you are.  I know you were upset because she hurt me, that’s pretty understandable, but now you need to try to get over that.  If there’s more to it” – and he thinks that there is: thinks that Alexis had hero-worshipped Kate and been badly hurt when Kate proved just as flawed as any other normal person; thinks that Alexis is just a little bit jealous, without realising it, that Kate’s become such an important person in his life – “then you can come and talk to me about it.  I won’t discuss what you say with anyone else – especially not Grams or Kate.  If you think you need to talk to someone independent, we can sort it.”  He wonders if a session with Dr Burke would help Alexis.  He might ask Dr Burke that.

Alexis leaves precipitately, without a word.  Shortly after, she comes back downstairs and exits the loft, still without a word and cloaked in hurt fury.  Castle guesses that he is not winning the cool Dad contest today.  He looks at his watch.  It’s still not nearly ten.  There’s time to talk to his mother, yet.  The thought does not make him any happier.  He makes himself a strong cup of coffee and wonders why he hadn’t seen the problems in his own life sooner, when he could have fixed them without all this quarrelling.


	59. When I find myself in times of trouble

Martha stumbles down the stairs shortly before ten, looking hung over and bleary.  However, she looks pleased to see Castle, which after Alexis he had certainly not expected.  Small mercies.  Large ones are far too much to hope for.  Changing his behaviour is astonishingly difficult and painful.

“Good morning, mother,” he says, and places a glass of juice in her hand, concocting coffee as she swallows it.  “Tylenol?”

“Darling, I didn’t expect to see you till much later.  What are you doing here?  Aren’t you supposed to be with Katherine?  Or is she here?”  What?  Katherine?  Not the cold, formal references to Detective Beckett?  This is all wrong.  It was supposed to be Alexis with the empathy, tact and understanding.  His mother displaying those traits so overtly – indeed, at all - confuses him immensely.  It was Alexis he’d thought would have understood and come round without a hitch; he’d thought his mother would have taken more time.  She’s still talking to him.  “I’m so sorry about yesterday.  I just never thought about it.  Is Katherine better?”

“Kate’s okay now.  She’s not here.  I’m meeting her at eleven.”

“Will you tell her I’m sorry?  I’d tell her myself, but I expect that she won’t want to see me.  Tell her that too.”

“Of course.”  He sounds so confused even Martha, deep in hung over apologising, notices it.

“Darling, what’s wrong?”

“I thought you’d be upset.  That I went with Kate last night, I mean.”  Now it’s Martha’s turn to look confused.

“Why on earth would I be?  It was obvious she needed you, and she wasn’t going to stay here, was she?”  She cocks her head at him.  “Are you worried she won’t come here?”  Castle simply nods.  “Because of us?”  He nods again.  “You’re not giving her much credit, are you?”  He starts to nod reflexively before what his mother’s said reaches his brain.

“What?”

“I didn’t – don’t – approve of what she did this summer.  I don’t approve of the way both of you have messed this up before that, Richard – now don’t you make that face at me.  I’m your mother.  I’m perfectly sure there’s more to this on your side than you’ve let on.”  Ouch.  That’s the last place he wants his mother to explore.  “But that drama last night was very revealing.  Even though you’d told us what was happening, it’s different when you actually see it.  To risk that, each time she saw you - she’s trying a lot harder than I realised to fix things - for you.  So if she makes you happy, kiddo, get out there and go for it.”  Castle sits down hard at the counter, dumbfounded.  This is the last thing he’d expected.  Somewhere along the way home, the world has inverted itself, like Alice through the Looking Glass.  Nothing’s how it ought to be.  He fastens on one point.

“What d’you mean I’m not giving her much credit?”  His mother sighs loudly and dramatically.

“For goodness’ sake, Richard.  She came here and sat through the most painful family occasion since King Lear banished Cordelia” – Castle hopes that’s an exaggeration – “without losing her temper, and then she came back twice.  I bet you a shopping trip to Bergdorf Goodman” –

“Mother, you’ll do that anyway, and hand me the bill.”

“Shush, kiddo.  – to Bergdorfs, that she’ll force herself to come back here within the week.  And no discouraging her just so you don’t have to pay up -”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Castle interjects.  “It’s a bet.  I’ll win, anyway,” he finishes bleakly.  His mother throws a very sharp look at him.

“Really, dear, you have to have some confidence in Katherine.”

“I have plenty confidence in Kate.  Right now, I have none in Alexis.  I’m not even going to ask Kate to come here till Alexis can behave like an adult.”  Martha is silent.  She recalls what had happened after Castle had left last night.  It had been illuminating.  Alexis had been quite voluble about the situation.  Her son and grand-daughter have a lot of making up to do.

“Richard, what has Alexis said about last night?”

“Nothing.  Well, just that you both wanted to apologise and I stopped you by taking Kate home and then that you were upset.  I think that’s not true.  I’m sure you were upset, but not the way Alexis put it.  Mostly she complained that I wouldn’t tell her Kate’s business, and then that I put Kate, and her privacy, ahead of you both all the time.  Which is _not true_.”  He’s getting pretty wound up again, thinking over what Alexis had said.

“Maybe you should do.”  Jaw, meet floor.  Eyebrows, meet ceiling. 

“ _What_?”  He’s really got to find a more extensive vocabulary.  “Mother, what are you talking about?”

“I can take care of myself.”  Castle raises a disbelieving eyebrow and looks sardonically at her. “Stop that.  I’m” –

“Old enough?”

“Quiet, kiddo.  That was uncalled for.  You don’t need to worry about me.  Kids are supposed to leave their parents eventually.”

“Don’t children normally move out from their parents’ home, not the other way round?”  Castle grins to show he means it as a joke, and Martha curls a derisive lip in return.

“Stop changing the subject.  Alexis will be going off to college in less than a year, and if she’s accepted on the accelerated entry programme even sooner.  She’s growing up, Richard, and soon she’ll be gone.  That’s what happens.  You can’t put all your life on hold hoping she won’t.  And Alexis shouldn’t expect you to.  She just needs time to get used to it.  She’s had you to herself all her life, and now she’s got to share you.  You weren’t expecting Katherine to move in tomorrow, were you?”

“No.”  Nice as it would be, no.  He looks at his watch.  “I need to go.  Mother”- he stops for an instant, comes round to hug her – “Mother, thank you.”  Martha hears much more than just the words.  Grown as he is, sometimes he needs a little motherly input.  She wishes heartily that she hadn’t been so… defensive, a few days ago.  Ah well.  She’ll get a chance to make up with Katherine in due course.  When the girl is ready to do so.  In the meantime, she’ll consider a little grandmotherly interference.  When the Tylenol kicks in.  Really, all these emotional scenes before breakfast.  It’s like a bad farce.

* * *

 

Castle gets to his range just in time.  Kate’s prowling up and down outside, steely determination on her face.  He has the horrible sensation that if he’d been late she’d have used him as the target.  She looks like she wants to shoot everything in sight.  In fact, he recognises this situation.  She can’t solve one aspect of  - not a case, this time but their life – so she’s concentrating fiercely on solving something else; to wit, how to shoot.  When they get inside he quietly tells the range staff to give her as many magazines as she asks for and to keep them coming.  He’ll be sick of shooting long before she is, today.  He glances at her again and realises that she is dressed in full Detective Beckett, complete hardass, mode.  Ah.  Um.  There’s no Kate visible here.  He wonders what she’s been thinking about for the last couple of hours, to put that personality on so completely.  He hopes she’ll be able to cast it off again, later.  And this is clearly not the time to pass on his mother’s apologies.  He wants them accepted with the same understanding and sincerity as they’ve been given, and right now Kate is focused in a very different direction.

Kate has been thinking, repetitively and pointlessly, about guns being pointed at her, rather than her pointing guns at others, and, although she’s managed to visualise various moments from her cop history in which that has occurred, without a full-on flashback; has achieved nothing beyond that except a slight headache and a distinct mental resemblance to a hamster on a wheel.  She’s still absolutely sure that just visualising will be entirely inadequate – after all, it had taken ten days minimum to be able to look properly at Castle in the flesh, after half a summer of visualising his face.  And she’s only got a week.  Being unable to see her way through the problem has also left her bad-tempered, and since she’s still not allowed to spar, shooting targets is the next best option.  It’ll fill the time till she can talk to Esposito.  Castle’s arrived just before she’d be unfairly annoyed about his absence, too.   She’s no reason at all to be annoyed with him.  Absolutely none.  She pauses before she picks a booth and makes sure to kiss him in a particularly definitive, possessive fashion.  It improves her mood immensely to leave him flustered and flushed.  That should ensure he can’t shoot straight.  Not too soon, anyway.

She barely notices the time pass as she takes shot after shot.  Frustration is fuelling accuracy, it appears.  The target’s chest is shredded time after time, and when she switches to head shots that’s pretty good, too.  When she runs out of clips, there’s a polite staff member close by who offers her more, and when she finishes those there’s another batch.  She only stops shooting when she feels a blister forming, and her scores are better than any time since June.  Still not good enough to win a bet, but certainly good enough to requalify.  She feels good, stands straight, Detective Beckett, back in business.  As long as she can deal with looking down the barrel of the gun.

Outside the booth Castle’s waiting for her, playing with his phone. 

“When are you meeting Espo, Kate?  Because it’s half past twelve already.”  Kate squeaks.  Castle only just swallows a snigger at the incongruous sound.

“Now!  I need to go.  Thanks, Castle.”  She kisses him hard and spins to go.  He can vaguely hear _seeya later_ in her wake and assumes that she’ll contact him.  And if she doesn’t, well, he’ll find her.  He doesn’t think she’ll mind that.  He realises he hasn’t even had a chance to tell her about the various reactions of his family.

* * *

 

Kate hurries into the lunch bar she’s arranged with Esposito to find him already partway through a large burger.  “Sorry, Espo.  I was shooting and lost track of time.”  She rubs the blister to soothe it, orders her lunch rapidly.

“What’s the problem, Beckett?  Ya didn’t say much on the text.”

“Need some”- she nearly says _help_ , but she’s not that different from how she used to be – “advice.”  She swallows a bite of sandwich and a gulp of milkshake to give herself time to think.  Esposito simply waits, dark eyes intent.  “Martha pulled a gun on me last night.”  Espo chokes.

“Castle’s mom pulled a gun on you?” he squawks.  “Whaddya do?  Tell her she can’t act?”  It’s Kate’s turn to choke.  She misses the sarcastic banter of the bullpen more each day.

“It was a fake from one of her shows.  It was an accident, Espo.”  He waits some more.  “I… had another flashback.  Not quite so bad as at the range.  I need to know if it was the gun pointed at me or if it was just that I didn’t expect Martha to be shooting at me in Castle’s loft.  I thought you might have an idea.”

“How’dya expect me to tell you that?”  Esposito has a really bad feeling about the next few words.

“I want you to hold your piece on me.  Now.”  He’s not surprised.  He’s concluded, in the last four weeks, that Beckett has actually gone clinically insane when it comes to getting back to the job.  Not that he’d use those words.  No.  Batshit crazy, yes.

“No.  No way.”  He sees the argument rising to her lips.  “No.  Friggin’.  Way.  That has got to be the dumbest half-assed stupid idea you’ve had since you wanted to shoot.  An’ remember how that turned out?”

“Espo…”

“No.  Beckett, last time I helped you it went totally tits-up and you ended up zoned out on the range floor.  I’m not pointing a gun at you now.  You wanna get me put on report?”

“Espo, you gotta help me sort this.  I gotta get back.  C’mon.  I need to know if it’s the gun that freaked me out or the situation.  If you don’t help me I’ll lean on Ryan.  He won’t let me down.”  That’s low.  But Esposito knows she’ll do it, because she’s crazy.  Stone cold, batshit crazy.

“Okay, Beckett.  I’ll help ya out.  But not here, and not now.  After last time, the only way I’m doin’ this is with Castle ten feet away an’ in some place that’s safe.  Have you told him what you’re plannin’?”  The slight colour in her cheeks tells him the answer.  “You haven’t.  Ri-ight.  No way am I gettin’ into this until you’ve got him to agree to be there.”  Esposito has not forgotten Castle’s promise to make him regret it if Beckett gets upset.  This latest dumb idea would certainly qualify, and he likes his current physical state, with all limbs and assets attached.

Beckett is opening and closing her mouth like a goldfish, and to much the same effect.  Espo’s _blackmailing_ her.  “What the hell, Esposito?  You think I need a babysitter?”

“No, I think ya need committed.  Can’t arrange for that, so I’m not doin’ this till I’m sure someone’s around that you’ll let help when it all goes to shit.  ‘Cause it will.  An’ the only person you’ll let is Castle.”  Esposito wipes his mouth off as he finishes his burger, crosses his arms belligerently and glares at Beckett, who glares back.  But Esposito holds all the cards, this time, and after last time he’s clearly in no mood to be bullied, badgered or cajoled.  Beckett caves in.  She doesn’t have a choice.

“Okay, Espo.  I’ll talk to Castle.”  There’s a resigned tone to her capitulation.  She’d really been hoping to do this without Castle having to know.  She’s not at all sure it’ll be a true test if Castle’s sitting a few feet away waiting to catch her if she falls.  Although… how’s that going to be any different from any normal day out in the field?  Except that he’ll be expecting it and ready, rather than the sudden chaos of a shoot-out on the job.   He’s always only a few steps behind, at most.  Even when he’s been told to stay out the way.  So maybe it won’t be too unrealistic.  “Where are you thinking of?  As a _safe place_.”

“ ‘M not sayin’ till I hear from Castle.”

“ _What_?”

“I wanna hear from Castle before I tell you anything.”  Beckett’s back to goldfish-hood.

“Don’t you trust me, Espo?”

“Acourse I trust you.  I trust you to do any friggin’ insane thing that crosses your mind to try to get back on the job.  So I ain’t tellin’ you squat till I hear from Castle.”

Beckett growls with frustration.  “Okay.  But I’m going to get you for this, Espo.  You’ll pay.”

“You try that an’ I’ll tell Lanie what you’re plannin’.”  That is so low it’s subterranean.  That is just… evil.  She descends into semi-audible muttering.  Espo doesn’t give a toss.  He is not, absolutely _not_ , helping Beckett kill herself again.  And it looks to him like he’s the only one who can stop this turning into another clusterfuck like last time.  He finishes his drink.

“Not settin’ up anythin’, Beckett, till Castle calls me.  Personally.  See ya.”  He stands up and leaves, conveniently quickly, before she can protest, maim him or think up another argument.  Kate’s left with nothing to do but finish her lunch and think about what Esposito’s said, and, more uncomfortably, what Castle’s going to say.  It’s unlikely that he’s going to appreciate the sense of this idea, but she doesn’t have a better one.  Might as well get on with it.  She’s only got a week.  She clicks out a text, asking Castle to come by around dinner time.  She’ll need that long to work out exactly what she wants, and what to say.  She has to convince him.

* * *

 

Back at the loft, Castle has disappeared to write, and Martha is considering her options for interference.  Such an unpleasant word, interference.  Helping.  That’s much more accurate.  She’d been shocked right out of her socks by what she’d inadvertently done, but on balance it might well be a very good thing.  She just has to figure out why Alexis is reacting so unlike herself.  She’s not going to see her son and granddaughter at odds for long. 

She also wants to see Katherine.  Without Richard there.  He’ll just be in the way of a nice chat between girls.  She thinks very carefully about that.  Whatever Richard thinks, she muses fondly, she’s actually quite good at reading the small hints and clues that he and others give off.  She’s a much better actress than he gives her credit for, and a large part of acting is picking up one’s cues.  But she’s never been able to read Katherine. 

All her larger than life personality traits tell her to barge forward and force herself on Katherine, break the ice for good.  All her instincts tell her that it would be a huge mistake, and Richard would never forgive her.  Martha decides that there’s no conundrum so complicated that it can’t be improved or solved by a large glass of wine, and shortly is relaxing in the company of the remains of the extremely pleasant Bordeaux- really, Richard does have excellent taste in wine – that she had indulged in the previous evening.

 _Well, darlings_ , she thinks theatrically, sipping her wine with a stage flourish that she’s sure she’ll use again, _yesterday evening.  Oh, what a show!_   And all the more interesting for being reality, not scripted.  It’s rather irritating to have to admit it, but Richard had been right not to tell her about dear Katherine, and even to tell them not to interfere.  She wonders, for the first time, about what Alexis had actually said to Katherine when she’d gone to her apartment.   Somewhere in all Alexis’s tearful upset, that hadn’t been clearly expressed.  Maybe the script hadn’t been quite as much of a monologue as she’d assumed.

She comforts herself with another sip of wine, and arranges herself on the couch in a pose which owes much to productions past in which she’s played the vamp.  Behind the pose, though, she’s still musing.


	60. Oh, what a circus!

Martha’s Bordeaux-boosted musings are wobbling fuzzily between the problem of Katherine and the problem of Alexis when she slowly notices that Richard has emerged from his study – she hadn’t heard the tapping stop, so deep in thought had she been – and is regarding her wine glass with an offensively quizzical look.

“So early, Mother?”

“The sun’s over the yardarm,” Martha notes in an upper-class English tone borrowed from her role as Lady Bracknell.  Though Lady Bracknell would not have been caught vamping on a couch.

“Only in Britain.  Not in Manhattan.”  He glances out the window.  “Not that you could tell.”

“There you are, darling.  It could be.  You do have excellent wine.” Castle’s heart sinks as he notices that, yet again, his mother’s unerring taste has led her straight to a bottle he’d had his own plans for.  Martha looks at him keenly and detects the small signs of successful writing.  “Did you want to talk to me?”

“I really came out to get a drink.”  Martha proffers the wine.  “Not that sort of a drink.  I’ve run out of words, so I thought I’d take a break.  Oh – and I’m going to Kate’s for dinner tonight.  Have you left anything drinkable to take with me?”

Martha tosses her head.  “Of course.  What do you think I am?”  She watches Richard fussing over the coffee machine.  The writing might have been productive, but he seems rather strained.  “Is something wrong?”  His answer is rather too quickly produced for comfort.

“Everything’s fine, Mother.”  Martha looks sceptically at his back.  She doesn’t believe her son.  However, her intervention will be far more productive with better timing, and rather more background information.  She’s sure that the slammed door that had woken her, before she’d even had half her beauty sleep, has a role in this latest episode.  She’d wondered if Alexis would ever be a normal teen.  It seems, from this morning’s inferred dramatics, she is now.  _Oh, what a circus; oh, what a show!_ She hums the tune sotto voce.  Congratulating herself on her tact and diplomacy, Martha turns the conversation to trivialities until her son rapidly retreats to the study again, and then returns to her concern about Alexis.

It’s really not like her granddaughter to behave like this.  Alexis has always been so mature, so accepting of Richard’s rather unusual lifestyle over the last three years.  It’s very odd that the plot seems to have twisted so much, so quickly.  Martha scents a mystery, and the insatiable inquisitiveness that her son had inherited comes quickly to the fore.  She assumes the role of Miss Marple, amateur psychologist extraordinaire – albeit quite substantially older than she – and, aided by a further injection of Bordeaux, begins to apply a formidable, if largely concealed, mind. 

* * *

 

If Richard and Alexis had been in harmony for so long, the only real reason for change must be recent.  Of course, the only relatively recent precipitating event had been Katherine being shot.  Martha shudders, not theatrically at all.  If poor Katherine had been reliving that every time she saw Richard, in the way that had been performed last night – or worse - then although she had gone about it in entirely the wrong way, Martha can understand that not seeing him was likely the only thing she could do.  Although it would have been less of a romantic tragedy had Katherine at least spoken to Richard first.  Quite the comedy of errors, that pair.

Back to the drama Alexis is enacting.  Katherine was shot right in front of them, and Richard tried to play the hero, arriving too late.  A fine pose, that, kneeling over his dying love.  Twenty-five years younger and they’d have been Romeo and Juliet.  Then there were those ghastly hours in the hospital, waiting for news, during which time Richard had barely spoken, grey-faced and slump-shouldered.  After that – oh yes, thinks Martha suddenly, after that – Richard had sent Alexis out of New York, for the whole of the summer.   He’d brooked no argument – it was the first time Martha had seen him assert full parental authority in nearly four years – and ignored all tears. 

Point one, then, Alexis had watched an attempted, terrifyingly close to successful, murder, sat through hours of life threatening tension during which her father had been incapable of providing her with anything other than physical comfort, there being no good news to give her, and then been unceremoniously bundled as far away as possible.  Had Richard ever explained to Alexis that he thought she might be a target too?  That he’d done it to keep her safe?  Martha strongly suspects not.  Richard had been devastated, and he’s never thought clearly when he’s been upset.  She doesn’t like to think what would have happened had she let him send her out of town too.  She hopes he wouldn’t have done anything… stupid.  Alexis, though, had likely been deeply hurt by that, had likely been thinking that she’d been sidelined.

Point two.  Martha squirms, very uncomfortably.  She’d thought it was for the best, when Alexis returned from camp, to explain why Richard had spent almost all the time in his study and, when he did bother appearing, looked as if someone had shot him.  And she might just have been a little derogatory about Katherine’s behaviour, played up the dramatic aspects of the scorned lover, while she did.  That might, with hindsight, have been something of an error.  Alexis, being fiercely protective of her father – very Sophoclean – had immediately objected to it.  It seems that knowing the circumstances hasn’t altered that.   Alexis, Martha thinks, is entirely too fixated on protecting her father for a teenager.  It seems that Richard might have realised that too.

Point three.  Time for another drop of wine.  Richard has said as little as possible about Katherine, ever since she came back to the city.  Martha applies a little focused memory, not in the slightest impaired by age or best Bordeaux.  Richard had come home from a book signing, paper-white and coldly enraged, and then swiftly gone out again to return, still paper-white, but according to Alexis clearly thoroughly upset.  Martha wonders just what he’d done, that day.  He’d taken on a schedule at least twice as busy as normal to promote his book – she has a momentary flare of maternal pride that she’d never let him see: it’s also her maternal duty to keep his conceit under control – and then he’d been tense and then secretive about his texts, post and a series of points when he’d not been around at the times expected.  Hmm.  Richard had been keeping seeing Katherine secret for rather longer than she’d thought, and surprisingly successfully.  He’d deceived her completely: she’d thought for a while he was looking for a new girlfriend.  He must have inherited some of her acting talent after all.  And then one of her friends had spotted Richard and Katherine in a violent argument in Central Park – really, do the younger generation have no discretion? – and when she and Alexis had tried to find out what was happening Richard had refused to tell them anything at all except to order them not to interfere.  Alexis isn’t used to that, because Richard so rarely keeps anything secret except pleasant surprises.  Another sip of wine.  Alexis is used to being her father’s confidante, and suddenly that got shut down too.

Mmm.  Richard has certainly mishandled Alexis this time, hasn’t he?  First he sent her away without explanation, then he wouldn’t talk about Katherine and didn’t explain that reasoning either.  No wonder Alexis felt neglected.  Martha considers.  Richard had been spending plenty time with Alexis, though.  It’s not like he’s been at Katherine’s all night, every night, or deserted them.  He’s been around just as much as – even a bit more than - he ever is.  Alexis is hardly neglected.

Martha empties her glass and retrieves the bottle to pour another.  She’s thought enough.  She may not be willing to force a discussion on Katherine, but she will certainly be able to force one on Alexis.  And if she stages it correctly, no force will be required.

Just when she thinks that, Richard exits his study looking rather groomed, even by his usual suave standards – Martha is so glad that he shaves regularly, now, that stubbly look he’d affected three years ago made him look so sloppy – collects a bottle of wine in passing and bids her farewell.  Before he reaches the door, though, he turns back to her. 

“Mother, do you think you could try and find out why Alexis is so upset about all this?  She’s not very happy with me and I don’t know what’s behind it.  She never behaves like this.  Please?  She won’t talk to me.”

Martha assents as Richard exits.  Now she’s even got support for exercising her inquisitorial nature.

* * *

 

Castle’s managed to snag a bottle of wine that he really doesn’t want his mother drinking.  He’s still fretful about Alexis, who’s acting so uncharacteristically that he feels there must be far more to it than he knows.  He hopes his mother can find out.

Kate opens the door to him and looks happily at the wine.  “Perfect, Castle.”  He looks surprised.  “I made casserole.  This’ll go nicely.”

“You cooked?”

“Nothing else to do, after I saw Espo.  I thought I’d surprise you.  You’re not the only one who can handle a kitchen knife.”

“I can handle lots of things,” Castle leers.

“Right now there’s only one thing you need to handle.” Castle looks hopeful and moves closer.  “A corkscrew.” 

While Castle’s attending to the bottle, muttering darkly about his relegation to wine waiter, he remembers something.  “I talked to Mother.  Or she talked to me, anyway.”  Kate’s movements around the kitchen stutter and then recommence.  “She told me to say sorry to you, and then she said that though she’d rather say so herself she didn’t want to see you unless you would be happy with that.”  By the time he’s finished Kate looks like he’s grown a second head.  She shakes her own head.  “What’s wrong?”

“It’s just a bit unexpected, that’s all.  Give me some time to think about it.  It’s not like your mother normally stands back.”  Well, no.  Not normally.  Front of stage, yeah.  Always.

Kate notices very clearly that Castle hasn’t mentioned Alexis in that little speech.  That doesn’t seem like a good sign.  However, she’d have been pretty upset with him if he’d revealed her issues and thoughts without her permission, so she’s not going to pry into his problem with Alexis – it’s clear that there is one, but her interference is not going to be helpful.

When they’ve sat down with a rich beef casserole, including dumplings, which Castle has never quite mastered, despite his generally excellent culinary competence, it’s clear there’s something on Kate’s mind.  Castle decides to push a little.  Making this work needs communication, and there’s clearly something to communicate.  He just knows he isn’t going to like it.  Kate’s wriggling her nose and biting her lip in the manner that means she’s mulling over something moderately unpleasant but not horrific.

“What’s up, Kate?  How’d lunch with Esposito go?”  Kate’s… pouting.  Pouting?  That’s very seriously cute.  Saying so, however, will likely get him maimed.  She looks just like she’s six and been caught out in some minor misdemeanour.

“He told me,” she starts indignantly, “that he wouldn’t pull a gun on me.”  Castle’s jaw drops.

“Now why on earth would he say that, Kate?  Possibly because it’s a really, really bad idea?”  She isn’t listening, perhaps fortunately.  That wasn’t the best way to put that.

“He won’t do it unless you call him – yourself, he won’t do it if I call him – and tell him you’ll be there.  He’s _blackmailing_ me.  He thinks I need a babysitter.”  More indignation buttresses every word.  “It’s ridiculous.  All I wanted him to do was hold his gun on me so I could work out if I was spooked by the gun itself, or just by the situation.  You know, by getting a gun pulled on me in a supposedly safe place.  Then I could decide what to do about it.”  She pouts some more.  It’s adorably kissable.  At least, it would be, if what she was saying hadn’t sunk in.

“You asked Espo to pull a gun on you over lunch?”  He’s squeaking with a mix of surprise, horror and a strong desire to laugh.  He can just imagine Esposito’s face immediately following that request.

“Yes.”  She sounds as if she thinks he’s being dumb.

Castle strangles another snicker in its efforts to escape.  “You don’t think that maybe lunch is not the place to pull a gun on you?  C’n you not see what’s wrong with that picture?”  This is just so funny, he can’t resist ragging her.  She hasn’t worked out that he’s doing it. 

“Criminals pull guns anywhere.  Why not lunch bars?”  She suddenly realises that he’s winding her up.  “Shut up, Castle.  ‘S not funny.”  But her lips are quirking, and then she gives up the pout and starts to laugh herself.  “Okay, I see that.  Maybe it wouldn’t be the best place.  Someone might’ve called the cops.”  The full-lipped pout reappears.  “But he should still help me without insisting on you being there.  I don’t need babysat.”  Indignation rises again.  “And he won’t even take my word for it if I tell him you’ll come.  It’s _not fair_.”  Castle wonders whether telling her that she looks and sounds like a pretty, sulky toddler will leave him alive long enough to enjoy her expression when he does.

“So, Kate.  You went to lunch with Espo and asked him to pull a gun on you” – Castle stops to snigger some more – “and when he quite reasonably refused you’re cross with him?”

“Yes.  He ought to help.  It would have worked, too.”  That’s just a step too far for Castle, after last night.  He stops laughing.

“Really?”  Kate comes up short at the change in his tone.  He’s gone from humorous to serious in half a second flat.  “Do you really think it would have worked?  Or maybe you’d have had another flashback in the lunch bar?  What would Espo have done then?”  He’s trying very hard to batten down his worry, leavened with disbelief at her thinking.  Or lack of thinking.  He’s trying even harder not to use the sort of tone he’d used to use on a five-year old Alexis.  “Espo couldn’t cope with your flashback in the range, Kate.” – of course she doesn’t know that, doesn’t know that Esposito had given all responsibility to him – “He couldn’t help you.  He called me, and I was just around the corner.”  Kate’s looking slightly pale.

“I didn’t know that.  I thought Espo had dealt for the first few minutes, then you took over.  That explains a lot.”  She sighs.  “I just want this fixed, Castle. Every time I think it’s fixed something new comes up.”  She winces.  “I’ve only got a week.  Only just.  I can’t go on fieldwork if I can’t face a gun.  I’ve got to know if it’s the gun or the situation, right now, so I know if I can go back to fieldwork.  If Espo holds a gun on me when I’m expecting it I’ll know.”  Castle flicks an enquiring glance at her.  “On the job I _expect_ guns, and I’m wearing a vest. In your loft I don’t.”  She looks even more unhappy.  “I need to know what I can do.  I don’t want desk duty, you know that.”  She pauses, mouth twisting miserably.  “Though I suppose it would be better than nothing.  I’m so sick of being at home.”  She spots the swift flash of hurt on Castle’s face.  “I don’t mean I’m sick of being with you, Castle” – she puts an affectionate hand over his and squeezes – “that’s great.  But I need to be doing my job, as well.  I miss it.”

She looks hopefully at him, a child wishing for Santa.  “So will you call Espo?” 

Kate’s clearly only got one goal in mind: getting back.  Castle looks at her hopelessly.  He could stop this, simply by saying _no_.  But even though the initial visit to the range had been a disaster, even though this is likely to be, if not similarly disastrous, difficult, even though he will almost certainly end up dealing with a flashback afterwards – for all that, he is simply not willing to cause an emergency stop in her drive for recovery.  Unfortunate though the previous night had been, it had been several orders of magnitude better than the flashback at the range.  And she only has a week.  So he’ll do it, because – despite all evidence when it comes to her health – she’s not a child, and he doesn’t have a better suggestion that they could discuss.  Maturely.  He’s not going to override her.  He is _amazed_ that Esposito faced her down, though.  Even if Espo’s been in live combat, that’s brave.

“I will” – Kate relaxes notably and starts to speak.  He carries on talking over her.  “But only if you’ll go see Dr Burke to talk about last night, and whatever the results of this idea are.”

“Seeing him Monday, anyway.”  She doesn’t – quite – stick her tongue out and say _nyah nyah_ , but it’s close.  She smirks.  “Get dialling, Castle.”

“Not while you’re listening.”  It’s Castle’s turn to smirk nastily.  “You’ll interfere.  Interrupt.”  He smirks, if that were possible, even more evilly.  He feels that a little revenge hazing for scaring hell out him with her latest plan is entirely justified.  “This is men’s business, protecting womenfolk.”  The expression on her face is worth any amount of trouble, which is clearly heading towards him more destructively than the Tunguska meteorite.  He’s laughing so much at her outraged look and failure to construct even a single word coherently, never mind a sentence, that he fails to notice her standing up, striding round to his side of the table, swift as muzzle-flash scooping the ice-cubes out of the jug of water and dropping them down the neck of his shirt.

“Ugh, ugh, ugh.  Apples!  _Apples!_ ”

“You chauvinistic jackass!  You patronising idiot!” She adds another few ice-cubes to the minor glacier currently in danger of slithering below his belt.  “ _Womenfolk?  Men’s_ business?  You are dead.  When I’m allowed to spar again I’ll take you to pieces and roast them.  You… you…”  She runs out of credible threats and breath.  Castle catches her wrists before she tips the whole jug over him and he consequently suffers frostbite in very undesirable places, and reduces his laughter to occasional sniggers.

“You are so _easy_ , Kate.”  He chortles some more.   “You should have seen your face.  Of course I don’t mean any of it.  More than my life’s worth to try to make you some little woman.  But it was worth it to see your face.”  He pauses, evaluating his chances of survival.  “I’ll call Espo now.  On speaker.”  The aura of suppressed violence around Kate diminishes materially.


	61. She's leaving home

Castle dials Esposito under a minatory glare from Kate.  He thinks that his chances of snuggling, let alone anything else (he thinks hopefully of other forms of nightwear) are perhaps somewhat limited if he doesn’t stop wisecracking and deal with this sensibly.  Not that the consideration of …er…physical benefits… would stop him refusing to assist if he thought Kate would end up like at the range, but he has some thoughts on minimising the problems he is sure are about to ensue.

“Espo?  Castle.  I hear you wouldn’t pull a gun on Beckett.  Why ever not?”  He _oofs_ as a punch hits his ribs hard enough to notice.  “Would it have given you indigestion?”

“Bro.  I like my badge where it is.”  Espo sounds unimpressed.  “You calling to tell me that you’ll go along with this half-assed idea of Beckett’s?”

“It’s perfectly sensible,” Kate interjects angrily.  Both men ignore that.

“Yeah.  But only ‘cause you ‘n’ me are better than the alternatives she’ll come up with if we don’t.”  Another _oof_.  “What’re you thinking of?”

“I thought if we got outta town somewhere” – Castle has a flash of brilliant inspiration.

“Espo.  Let’s go up to my place in the Hamptons.  It’s safe, and totally private.  Sure it’s a couple of hours away, but it’ll be easier to manage everything there.”  He doesn’t say _and if_ – this time it’s an _if_ , not a _when_ – _it all goes wrong yet again it’ll be easier to take care of Kate there._   He’s fairly sure Esposito understands.  From the glare he’s receiving, he’s absolutely certain that Kate does.

“Okay.  Works for me.  Send me the address, I’ll meet you there.  What time?”

“Elevenish.  I’ll bring lunch.” 

“ ‘Kay.  See ya.”  Espo puts the phone down on him without formality.

“Why do we have to go all the way to the Hamptons?  Why not here?”

Castle decides to risk death a little more.  “Because I say so?”  The glare turns ferocious.  “No?  Okay, no.  Because it’s quiet, completely private, and there is absolutely no risk of some concerned citizen meddling.”

“Makes sense, I suppose.”  Then suddenly her mood switches and her face lights up.

“Hey, Castle, that means _I_ get to drive the Ferrari.  All the way up and down the expressway with no traffic cops.  They’ll never be out that early on a Sunday.”  What?  Oh, _shit_.

“But… but…”

“Nope.  _Mine_ ,” she says definitively and very possessively.  Oh _God_.  He’s terrified, the more so because she’s an excellent driver.  He’s going to die of fright.  She’s aiming to break the land speed record.  _Eeek_.

He becomes aware of a different, more pressing, problem.  The ice Kate poured down his neck has melted and he’s sitting in a soaked shirt and pants.  It’s like being two again.

“Look what you did,” he sulks.  Kate merely sniggers.

“Your own fault.  You started it.”

“But I’m all wet.”

“Shouldn’t that be my line?”  Castle’s mouth drops open.  And then he pulls her down on to his lap to kiss her hard, ignoring all protests about the cold and damp.

“If you don’t like it, Kate, do something about it.”  He thinks that might not have been the best phrase to use, later.  Sewing on buttons is not his favourite pastime.  Undressing Kate Beckett, however, just might be.  He runs his finger over her revealed skin and its barely-there lacy covering, smiles hungrily as he draws her in.  Slow anticipation is everything, for both of them.  Slow loving; delicate touches and tension building with each opportunity to accelerate ignored;  leaves them sated and fulfilled, close as unborn twins.

* * *

 

Martha is trying and failing to cook some dinner to an acceptable, or even edible, standard,  (possibly she should have just called for take-out rather than trying to emulate Julia Child) when Alexis returns.

“Hallo, sweetie,” Martha carols happily.  “Just in time for dinner.”  Alexis looks suspiciously at the array of pots and pans and quickly wipes her expression clear as Martha turns round.

“What have you cooked, Grams?”  Martha hears the doubt. 

“Oh, just a little chicken fettucine.”  She stands so that she’s hiding the charred sauce sticking to the pan, and changes the subject.   “Have you been with Paige today?  I heard there was a sale at Macy’s.”

“No, I went to the library to study.”  Martha looks meaningfully at the lack of a satchel full of books, or indeed anything larger than a small handbag.  “I did!”

“Darling, I’m sure you did,” Martha soothes.  “Was it an English assignment?”

“Economics.  I’m going to go to Stanford and be with Ashley, just like I said I would.  I’ll hear from the accelerated entry program in a couple of weeks.   I can’t wait to go.”

“Well, if it’s really what you want.  But we’ll miss you…”  Martha leaves that delicately hanging.

“ _You_ might,” Alexis spits bitterly.  “Dad won’t.  Too busy with Detective Beckett.”  Martha congratulates herself on placing the right bait, and raises gently inquiring eyebrows, modelled perfectly on Meryl Streep.

“Really, darling?  What’s wrong?”   She pitches her tone perfectly to suggest that she’s wholly sympathetic to Alexis.  In truth, she’s horrified by the strength of Alexis’s feelings and desire to leave home as soon as she can.  She really doesn’t want Alexis to leave this year.  Certainly not in this way.  Neither this momentary spat with Richard nor following Ashley are acceptable reasons to make such life-changing decisions.  Her own life experience is testament to that mantra.  Getting that invested in your first serious boyfriend is never a good plan.  Oh boy, Martha thinks, it’s not a good plan.  It hadn’t been for her, and – though Alexis is rather less naive about certain matters than she was – it’s not what she’d want for any teen, still less her granddaughter.

“Dad told me he didn’t need me to look after him, even though he does.  He never looks after himself and he never looks after us.  If we weren’t here he’d be a disaster.  But he’s so wrapped up in Detective Beckett that he doesn’t care about us.  If he did he’d make her talk to us.  We’ve a right to know what’s going on.”

Hmm, thinks Martha.  She hadn’t worked out the half of it, earlier.  Maybe she should have channelled Tyne Daley and Sharon Gless as well.  Alexis carries on fulminating, becoming more upset with each word.

“And then he told _me_ off and told me not to interfere with her or him.  But he’s making a huge mistake.  She’ll only hurt him again and then we’ll have to pick up the pieces.  Again.  Why can’t Dad just be sensible?”

“When has your father ever been normal?”  Martha asks, in her usual sardonic tones.  “Though I suppose he has managed to make it to” – she coughs, unwilling to think about Richard’s age in view of its implications for her own – “without killing himself, you or me.”  An inspired ad-lib sequence occurs to her.  It’s just like being on Broadway, though this audience is tougher than the New York critics.

“I know he behaves like a high school kid a lot of the time, but when it comes to the big stuff, he steps up.  Like letting me live here... or making sure he made up for every time your mother couldn’t be here” – Martha would rather say something a lot blunter about Meredith, but she’s lulling Alexis along – “even managing his finances so I can indulge my Bergdorf habit.”  Alexis manages a small smile, at that, though it soon retreats.

“But Grams, he’s just stopped thinking about us.  It’s like he’s left us behind.”

“But darling, you just said you wanted to go to Stanford this year.  If you’re three thousand miles away, who’s leaving who behind?”  Time for another ad-lib, before Alexis gets a chance to answer or argue that.  Martha wants that thought to sink in, before anything interferes with it.  “Have you heard from Ashley lately?  Has he told you all about the courses?”

Alexis is distracted.  “Yes.  He’s having a great time.  He says the course is really interesting.  I think I’ll love it.  He’s met lots of new people, too.  I can’t wait to meet them.”  Martha manages to hide an extremely doubtful expression.  It sounds to her like Ashley is moving on.  It also sounds to her like Alexis is consciously not thinking about that.  Hmm.  How much of Alexis’s annoyance with her father is actually transferred hurt that Ashley’s left?

“Let’s have dinner, sweetie.  It should be ready by now.”  Martha thinks that enough is enough, for now.  She’ll go back to this later.  After the first mouthful of her cooking, it’s clear that _later_ means after they’ve ordered Chinese.  She was sure that _tsp_ of salt meant _tablespoon_... 

Fortunately for Martha’s stomach, currently enhanced by another glass of wine, Chinese arrives rapidly and she and Alexis can have some – what’s that phrase?  Oh yes – _bonding_ _time_ over General Tsang’s chicken, moo shu pork and then ice-cream.  Alexis looks a little happier, a little dreamy.  No doubt she’s thinking of Ashley again.

The mood is entirely shattered when Alexis suddenly realises something.  “Where’s Dad?”  She doesn’t sound happy that he’s missing.

“He went out a couple of hours ago.  Does he have a signing or a book event?”  Martha knows perfectly well where Richard is.  He’s at Katherine’s.  She’ll bet her Louis Vuitton luggage on it.

“He’ll be with Detective Beckett.  Again.  Just like last night.  She might have been upset but I was too, and he just ignored us and went and he isn’t even sorry.”  Martha had been intending to deal with Alexis gently, but that’s just a bit out of line.

“Sorry for what?”

“Not looking after us.”

“Speak for yourself.  I didn’t need looked after.  I’m quite capable of doing it myself.  I’m even capable of looking after you -  after all, I’ve been doing it on and off since you were in diapers.”  Alexis makes a disgusted face.

“Me, then.  It was horrible.  I never thought it would be like that.”

“Like what?”  Maybe, Martha thinks, if Alexis talks about it she’ll work herself out of the current position.

“She just collapsed.  She couldn’t even stand up.  Dad nearly had to carry her.”  So far so good.  “It’s totally ridiculous.  What sort of person is that spooked by a toy gun?”  And back down the snake to zero again.

“Possibly the sort who was shot dead?”  Martha simply cannot help the snarky reply.  She loves Alexis more than anyone else except Richard (and even that’s a very close-run thing) but she is really behaving completely selfishly.  There has got to be more to this than is apparent.  Martha opts for direct measures.

“Alexis, this isn’t like you.  What’s got you so upset with Detective Beckett?  I know she hurt your father really badly but he told us that every time she looked at him she reacted like last night. Or worse.  So I’m not at all surprised that she didn’t feel that she could see him, though I think she handled that, and going away, quite, quite appallingly.” 

That’s heartfelt, even if she’s only phrasing it that way to keep Alexis talking.  Martha thinks that Katherine had handled it in the worst way possible, but it appears that whatever explanation she’s provided Richard with – and her son is not stupid, or (despite appearances) that easily fooled, and when that badly hurt not quick to forgive; so she must have been very convincing – he’s accepted it. (he’s never forgiven Meredith, and Katherine’s actions, whilst not in the same league of betrayal, had exactly the same effect on him)  It’s up there with Casablanca, that reconciliation.

“He just runs after her like a pet puppy, whatever she does.  It’s embarrassing, Dad pretending to be a cop and pretending to solve crimes.  He’ll get killed, and then what?  She won’t care.  She’ll just keep on doing her job.”

“Like she did after her own mother was killed?  Alexis, Detective Beckett is just not like our family.  She doesn’t fit our attitudes.”  Martha knows how her audience will interpret that sentence.  Later in this drama, they’ll find out how it was freighted with a different meaning.

“She doesn’t even try to fit in with us.  And she’s making Dad not fit in, too.  He’s totally different since the summer.  He won’t listen to me.  He sent me to camp all summer and when I came back he wouldn’t tell me anything and when I tried to help he just got angry and I don’t deserve that.  He’s treating me like a child.  He’d not be like this if it wasn’t for _her_.  He’d still be _my_ Dad.”  Back to this again.  Everything Martha (in her Miss Marple role) had deduced.

“Darling, have you asked your father why he sent you to camp?”  Clearly not.  Really, for a girl who says she wants people to talk, Alexis needs to learn to give them their cues.  “I’m sure he’ll tell you, if you ask.  He should have told you then, but let’s face it, your father isn’t much good at explaining practical things, is he?  He just goes right ahead and does them.  He always has.  Remember the first fencing lessons?” 

“Yes, but what’s that got to do with anything?”

“Darling, your father is not known for _think first then act_ , is he?”  Even in Alexis’s upset state that registers.  She smirks and shakes her head.  “Well, that’s probably what happened.  Some harebrained idea entered his skull and _Boom!_ Off you went to camp.”  Alexis relaxes a little, as Martha thinks about the best way to ease her into the next idea.  She really doesn’t want Alexis arguing with Richard.  That’s her job.  “He really missed you, you know.  But he didn’t want to say so, in case you felt you shouldn’t go away to college.”   The first sentence is completely true.  She justifies her second sentence, an outright lie, to herself as in service of the greater good.  She’ll let Richard know later, so he doesn’t spoil the plot.  “That’s why he’s been spending time with you now – apart from all those tedious signings and book parties.  Really, Gina and Paula are slave-drivers.”  Alexis nods enthusiastically.  Alexis is not fond of Gina.  “Cut your father a little slack, darling.  He’ll miss you so much when you go, but he won’t stop you when it’s what you want so badly.”  Is that too much schmaltz, she wonders to herself?  Alexis looks a little happier, and when she speaks again she’s lost some of the hard edge to her tone.

“But he should still talk to me.  He’s changing all our lives.”

“Well, sweetie, everything is changing anyway.  You’re all grown up and leaving home, and once you go your father won’t be able to talk to you all the time anyway.  I’m quite happy that he’s talking to someone else.  Listening to his wild ideas is so utterly exhausting, I’m only too, too glad” – she affects a thoroughly old-fashioned, upper class accent and Alexis giggles – “that he’s elsewhere.”  She thinks she’s done enough. Nothing at all is resolved, and Alexis is still behaving very, very badly, but picking her way through Alexis’s dislike of the whole situation without setting off a mine is very tiring.  She’ll negotiate this killing field some more tomorrow.

“Let’s tidy up.  And for goodness’ sake don’t let your father know about the fettucine.  I really don’t want to listen to him crowing.  It’s worse than that time I was Mrs Darling in Peter Pan in Cleveland.”  She hugs Alexis.  “Just let your father deal with his separation anxiety about you in his own way.  Remember, darling, as long as the cheques clear you can put up with a little eccentricity!”

Alexis disappears to her room in due course, looking slightly more at ease.  Now all Martha has to do is tip Richard off before he takes some action that will spoil all her efforts to mend matters.  And while she’s waiting for him, she’ll investigate the darker recesses of the wine rack.

* * *

 

Castle gets home not too late, not willingly, but sure that if he stays out all night and then all the next day it will not improve matters with Alexis, however his mother may cheer him on. He dislikes all this conflict intensely; wishes for an instant he had never set foot on this path; but then remembers that it’s brought him Kate, at least, and in time will bring him a more adult, balanced relationship with his family.   

His mother appears to be attacking his wine again, but it’s obvious from the sharp, meaningful expression and the way she’s unsubtly gesturing to move him to his study – he notes that _he_ isn’t getting a chance to pour himself any of _his_ wine – that she wants a private chat.  He hopes that this means that she’s talked to Alexis.  His hopes are not dashed by her first few words.  It’s the next few that stop him cold.

“So I told Alexis how much you’d missed her all summer and that you didn’t say so in case she withdrew her application to Stanford, and then told her that you needed to deal with your separation anxiety.”  He gibbers, wordlessly.  When he finally untangles his tongue, it’s almost too late.

“Mother...”

“Richard.  Darling, just trust me.  I know what I’m doing”  He looks entirely disbelieving.

“Mother, you’ve lied to her.  What’s Alexis going to think when she finds out?”

“I haven’t _lied,_ darling.  That’s such an ugly word.  I was just economical with the truth.  Do you _want_ her to go away to Stanford now?”

“No!  Of course not.  But that’s not why I sent her to camp.  I sent her to keep her safe.  And I’m not seeing Kate to deal with _separation anxiety_.”  He remembers to keep his voice down.  “I thought you’d stopped life coaching.  Why are you trying it on Alexis?”

Martha looks serious for a moment.  “Richard, I don’t think it’s just about Katherine, or the summer.  I think Alexis is worrying that Ashley is moving away from her too.  It’s that and you suddenly changing how you deal with her, both together.  She probably feels everyone’s leaving her.  You and Ashley have been the two important men in her life and you were both missing all summer.”

Castle thinks about that, absently moving back through to acquire the glass of wine he suddenly needs.  His mother’s stumbled over a plausible explanation, but he doesn’t know how it will unravel and be rewound into a comfortable home life.  Especially as he’ll be away all day tomorrow.

His mother is not wholly impressed with his plans for the next day, and suggests that he leaves before Alexis realises what’s going on.  Castle, however much he’d like to do that, isn’t having it.  He’ll leave when he needs to, to collect Kate at her apartment – and lose the keys to and control of his car -  and tell Alexis the truth.  Gently, but the truth.  He’s not going to hide in comforting cotton-wool lies.


	62. I'm in love with my car

As it happens, Castle’s worst fears are not realised.  When he leaves the loft, neither Alexis nor his mother have risen, so there is no need for complicated, or quarrelsome, explanations.  He leaves a brief note telling them that he’s gone up to the Hamptons to check on some maintenance work – well, it’s a good opportunity to make sure it’s being done as he wants it, if he’s going to be there anyway – adds that Kate’s going with him, because he is _done_ with hiding that, and says he’ll be home for dinner, with Kate if she agrees to come.  He looks at the note for a moment and adds a sarcastic line to his mother.

_Mother, I’ll cook dinner.  Please don’t cook: my blood pressure is high enough from your shopping trips without the extra salt.  For reference, in a recipe, tsp means teaspoon.  R._

He leaves whistling.

Kate is waiting impatiently for him at the apartment.  “Keys, Castle,” she says before he’s even fully inside the door.  He dangles them in front of her nose.

“What, these keys?”  She grabs for them, but they’re already out of reach.  Even in heels, Castle’s long reach means the keys are too high.  “Nuh-huh.  Not giving you them.  Yet.”  Kate stops her stretching, much to Castle’s disappointment (the view down her shirt had been exceptional) and steps back.

“You hoping to get a little lucky, Castle?  ‘Cause it’s not gonna happen if you don’t hand over the car keys.”  He dangles them back in front of her, and grins happily as she glares suspiciously at him.  He’s sure she knows what he’s planning – she’s a detective, after all, used to understanding motives - the question is whether she’ll deign to play along.  He sees the spark in her eyes, though she doesn’t drop the glare, and watches her decide to join the game.  She steps forward again, reaches for the keys, again, and when he pulls them out of reach moves right in against him, stretches up, and somehow manages to rub over every inch of his skin from mid-thigh to his neck, in a way which leaves him entirely uninterested in the location of the keys and extremely interested in the location of Kate Beckett.  To wit, firmly within his arms and under his mouth.  He’s exploring all the possibilities inherent in that location with delicate strokes of tongue and fingers, revelling in the feeling of her tight against him and beginning to consider that Espo really won’t mind if they’re just a little bit late, when the keys are yanked out his hand and Kate’s ducked away, laughing at him under the flush on her cheeks, through the slightly swollen lips.

She’s halfway out the door, calling _You coming, Castle?_ before he realises she’s moved, hurries after her, Pavlovian response to the words he hasn’t heard for four months.  He doesn’t even realise he’s avoiding thinking about his inability to return to the precinct with her, he’s blocked it off so well.

Down on the street, Kate is drooling – that’s the only word for it, drooling – over the Ferrari, looking at it in the way she looks at him in certain situations. He’s almost jealous of his own car.  When she takes the wheel, her hands slipping softly over the leather, he’s sure he is.  And when she revs the engine, strokes the gear lever into first with her thumb lightly running over the top of it and brings all the leashed power of the engine to bear; exactly as she wants it, in total control of the power, speed and movement of a top-line muscle car, he acquires a certain fellow-feeling for his Ferrari.  She makes the car, too, growl and then roar.

By the time they’ve been out on the expressway for ten minutes Castle’s limp with terror and has shut his eyes as tightly as he can; praying audibly to every god in the pantheon.  He’s got down to the lesser Indian deities before he dares edge an eye back open.  It’s not fair.   Beckett – this is pure badass Beckett - had lulled him into a completely false sense of security by being the perfect, good mannered driver in the city, though watching her handle the car then had left him anything but limp.  Now, she’s making the car – and him - scream as she puts it through its paces and the corners.  He doesn’t _think_ she’d raced Indy 500, but it wouldn’t surprise him if she had.  He just hopes he survives.  Though the way she’s gliding through the gears, slipping the wheel through her hands, utterly subsumed in the feel and sound and motion of the muscle around her, is intensely, unbelievably, erotic.

They arrive considerably before Espo’s expected, unsurprisingly.  Kate’s average speed – well, he’s not going to think about that.  He’s not going to try to match it, either.  But when he comes round to open the car door for her and she slides out he pins her up against the wing and takes her mouth fiercely, pressing into her and showing her just what some fleshly muscle can be made to do.  This is the memory he’ll keep, now, of holding Kate against a car: not a dark airfield with shooting and terror and his hand over her mouth, but thin late-September sunshine and birdsong and hot possessive kisses back and forth, her body responsive to his.  At last, a better memory.

Esposito’s imminent arrival means that some of the more interesting options for filling in time are not open to them, though it’s possible that they may leave some time after Espo does – after all, Kate’s not on shift tomorrow.  It seems like a good opportunity to have a calming hot drink – cocoa, perhaps: Castle absolutely does not need any further adrenaline in his system, nor further stimulation – and discuss what’s going to happen. 

“How do you wanna play this, Kate?”  It could be planning for an interrogation, or a visit to a witness.

“I think…” She’s considered this, not in any detail, but in some mysterious way concentrating wholly on driving has cleared her thoughts.  She thinks, briefly and distractingly, that she adores driving that car.  Maybe she’ll just keep the keys.  Just for a little while.  Only a few years.

“I think I ought to start by making sure it’s a training gun.  I trust Espo absolutely, but I need to reduce this to bare essentials.  If it’s an empty gun, then if I don’t freak out at that I know it’s not the physical form of the gun itself.”  He listens to her reduction of each factor in this challenge, analysing the issue just as she would dissect evidence.  “And we should do it outside.  Inside’s not likely.  And depending on how that goes, then we keep doing it till I don’t startle.”  She looks full at Castle.  “I know you don’t like me doing this.  But I can’t think of a better way, and nor can you.  Just… catch me if I fall?”

It’s the way she says it that grips his heart: complete trust that he’ll be able to, that he’ll see the problem and help her solve it, the utter lack of any doubt in his capabilities.  He’s left wordless by the depth of her acceptance.  He remembers, suddenly and guiltily, that he hasn’t told her that he’s banned from the precinct.  But he can’t open that subject now, with Esposito due any moment.  Do this first, then consider how to deal with that.  But dealt with it has to be.  Very, very soon.  It’s another difficult conversation that he’s been avoiding.

“I’ll have your back, Kate.  Every time.”  He will.  He just has to figure out how to get back to the Twelfth, iron-assed new Captain or not.  He can’t leave her to take the risks she’ll always take,  alone.  Not again.  Not ever again does he want to be called out by others on a dark night to save her; not ever again does he want to be kneeling over her, trying to stop her dying, just too late.  Maybe he’ll still be in that position, one day; her job is hardly safe; but he’ll have been at her back all the way.  He moves up beside her to catch her in, words not appropriate nor enough for the depth of emotion he feels.

Still, reassurance aside, there are other matters to discuss.  “I told Mother and Alexis I’d be back for dinner, with you.  But only if you want to – I just wanted them to know it was a possibility.  You don’t have to come.”  There’s a lengthy silence, during which Castle’s heart sinks further and further till he expects to see it on the floor, having leaked out the toes of his shoes. Kate’s expression does not give him much cause for hope.

“We’ll see.  It depends how this goes.  If it goes well, and it’s not the gun, then maybe.  If it goes badly, no.”  It’s better than he might have expected. 

* * *

 

When Espo does show up, hiding his stunned reaction to Castle’s house – the man’s quite smug enough already, he doesn’t need any encouragement, even if the place is enormous - Kate and Castle are demurely drinking coffee.   Esposito declines, and, with a very self-congratulatory smile, produces – which neither of the others had thought of – a vest.  “Betcha didn’t think of that, Beckett.”  Kate takes it from him, holds it up and nods decisively.

“Thanks, Espo.  Even got my size.”

“That’s ‘cause it’s yours.  I went by the precinct.”  Kate checks.  It _is_ hers.  She raises an eyebrow at Esposito, who’s not obviously intimidated.

“I thought this was in my locker?” Esposito looks angelically innocent.  Kate drops it, keener to get started than to enquire further.  For now.

But when she’s out of earshot for a moment – the two men hope – Castle whispers, “How did you get it?  It _was_ in her locker, wasn’t it?  She always stores it there.  But that’s always locked.” 

Esposito shrugs.  “Skill, bro.  Just sheer skill.”  Castle’s eyes light up.

“C’n you teach me?  That’d be so cool.  I’d be able to find out anything.” Esposito looks mildly disgusted. 

“No, bro.  If you wanna pick the lock on Beckett’s locker – an’ I don’t even wanna know why you’d do that – you’ll need to find some other sap – suicidal one - to teach you.  Anyway, your fingers are too clumsy.  Like the rest of you.”  Castle clamps down on the desire to say _that’s not what Beckett says_ and aims a shoulder-punch at Esposito, who evades it with considerable ease.  Castle ends up muttering imprecations under his breath till Kate – trying to be Beckett now – reappears, plucks up the vest, and starts for the door.

“You two coming?”  Esposito slides past her and out the door.  Castle looks at Kate, looks at the vest, looks at her fingers strained white where they’re gripping the Kevlar edge, looks at her lip, which currently contains several white teeth and no smile at all.

“Put it on, Beckett.”  He’s not sure she’ll be able to.  If she can’t manage that, then everything will need rethought, stat.

“When I get outside.”

“No, now.”  It’s – mostly – more of a request than an instruction, but there’s a certain inexorable intent behind the words that tells Kate that she’s not getting out of here till it’s on.  Somehow Castle’s managed to insinuate himself between her and the exit so she can’t leave the house until he does.  She glares half-heartedly at him and grumbles crossly, but as the vest goes on she fumbles with the fastenings a little more than the mild September air would justify.  When it’s done up, she tries to leave.

“It’s on.  Let me out, please.”  Castle watches the tiny falter in her step, the slight uncertainty in the click of her heels (how _did_ she drive in those?  The pedals are ultra-sensitive.) and briefly pulls her close, reassurance in the curve of his body, hoping it’ll be enough.  Esposito’s already calling for them to _c’mon_ from out back.

At the back there’s a sweep of land, not overlooked by other houses, which is just about perfect for the purpose.  Kate reaches Esposito and runs through what she wants; the way this should work out.  The PTSD recovery playbook, as practised by sniper victims everywhere.

Kate takes the gun from Esposito, breaks it open and checks it’s a training gun for herself, needing to see that even to start down this road, takes ten steps back from him and waits.  Castle’s errant mind wanders to the close resemblance to duelling stance, and flitters to a scene for Nikki Heat where she’s facing off with a duellist.  He tugs his thoughts firmly back to the moment and eases in behind Kate, far enough not to be touching, near enough to catch her if she falls.  When he signals that he’s ready, Esposito very slowly draws on Kate.

There’s utter silence.  Kate doesn’t move, doesn’t speak – but doesn’t collapse, doesn’t scream, either.  Espo politely pretends to be deeply interested in the non-existent wildlife which is not promenading across Castle’s property, though the concentration he’s putting into watching the empty space would justify a herd of unicorns; as Castle takes the two steps needed to gather Kate in and let her lean on him while she undertakes the review exercise.  It’s very similar to the _second_ visit to the range.  It takes her some time, and she’s unpleasantly ashen as she performs it, controlling her shaking by sheer force of will.  He wouldn’t know she was trembling, if she weren’t in his arms.  But when she’s finished, she steps away.

“Again, Esposito.  And this time could you draw fast enough that you might be able to hit a speeding snail?”  Never mind how scared Kate might be, that sentence terrifies Castle.  From the looks of him it terrifies Esposito too.  But the note in Kate’s voice doesn’t admit of disobedience, or defeat.  She takes stance again.

Esposito draws at half speed, this time, and Kate startles and gasps, spends the next few minutes reviewing again, leaning on Castle, once more.  And then she tells Espo to do it again.  And again, and again, and again.  Castle stops them after the tenth effort, by which time Kate’s no longer even trying to hide the tremors, and suggests an early lunch, pulling all sorts of delicious, unfussy food from various places.

Kate thinks that actually, it’s going pretty well.  She’d be having more fun if some perp was trying to pistol-whip her, but she hasn’t collapsed, she has faced the gun, even if she was expecting it (if Esposito drew any slower she’d be able to reach him in time to disarm him before the gun was level) and she isn’t unconscious and draped over Castle like some languishing romantic heroine.  Close enough, though.  It’s not bad, for a first effort at facing down a gun.  But she’s very glad to take a break and let some of the stress drain. 

After lunch they go back to it.  Kate’s deeply unimpressed by Esposito refusing to draw at a normal speed – or even a half-normal speed.

“C’mon, Espo.  No criminal draws that slow.  Not unless they’re killing to pay for arthritis drugs.  Speed it up a bit.”

“Yeah, I’ll do that.  Just as soon as you stop screaming like you’re Castle seeing a spider” – Castle splutters indignantly – “every time I do.”

“You calling me a girl, Espo? I’m not screaming.”  There’s a warning glint in Kate’s eye.  Castle splutters some more, unnoticed.

Espo’s decided that Beckett’s ripe for some bullpen ribbing.  And, he muses, it might stop her _thinking_.  It’s getting in her way.  If Beckett gets riled, she might stop _thinking_ about what she’s doing and start reacting.  She thinks far too much.  It’s what got them out here in the first place, Beckett _thinking._ And now he, Esposito, has spent two hours, plus lunch, trying not to look at Beckett’s white, drawn face; trying not to look at Castle, who if anything is worse, (that man is so whipped) and especially, if it wasn’t for Beckett’s batshit crazy _thinking_ , he wouldn’t be trying to look absolutely anywhere at all that means that he doesn’t have to intrude on the way Beckett is (not so metaphorically) leaning on Castle in between draws, and the way Castle is protectively holding her.  They’ve all known that this was building, ever since Castle bounced into the Twelfth, but here and now, in this setting and in this circumstance, it’s very different to the _why-the-frig-don’t-they-just-go-to-bed_ tension in the bullpen.  It’s more intense, more intimate, and really not something Esposito wants to know about.  So much emotion – not even particularly on display – makes his teeth itch.  It should stay firmly private.  Lovebirds belong in apartments, not out on the street.

“If the vest fits…”  Esposito raises and mock-fires rather faster than before, and this time, for the first time, Beckett reflexively reaches for the gun that isn’t on her hip as he does.  Espo watches with considerable satisfaction.  Though he thinks it’s just as well she doesn’t have a gun herself, given how her hand’s been shaking all this time.  He’s certainly not about to suggest it.

They keep at it, at Kate’s insistence, long after Esposito thinks they should stop; long after Castle, whose tolerance for Kate’s driving desire to fix this is far higher than Espo’s, thinks they should stop; long after Kate’s holding it together by guts and perseverance, until finally, after longer than either man could ever have predicted, she consents to stop.   But it’s worked, so far.  She’s made it through someone – even someone she knows, trusts, and respects – pulling a gun on her.  Question is, can she do it when it’s a true surprise?

Espo agrees to stay for a coffee, which turns into a discussion of next steps.  What Kate really thinks she needs, now, is a simulation, but she’s not going to find one of those in a hurry.   Esposito doesn’t have any more ideas than she does, or if he does he’s not mentioning them.  When he hightails it back to the city, telling himself that all the emotion is making him nauseous,  Castle and Kate are left to themselves to consider the results of the day.


	63. Feed me, feed me, feed me

“So now how do you desensitise?”  Kate shakes her head, slowly. 

“I don’t know.  We can’t do this in the city” – Castle smothers a sigh of relief that some common sense appears to have entered Kate’s head since yesterday – “and there isn’t any chance that Ryan and Espo can take time to come back here and randomly point guns at me whenever I go outside.”  Castle thinks that’s just as well.

“Won’t that be enough, though?  I mean, you’ve faced up to the gun all day, and not spooked.  The only thing you could try now is wearing a gun yourself, so you can draw on someone, and putting it all together.  I can’t magic up a random lowlife and Simunition for you to practice on – and I won’t,” he says hurriedly, before she picks that up and runs with it; straight on to another insane idea.

“It might be, I suppose.”  She doesn’t sound convinced.

“Talk to Dr Burke, tomorrow.  You said you were seeing him.  I’ve run out of ideas.”

Kate regards him with astonishment.  “You have no ideas?  You?  None?”  She stretches round and looks out the window as if the sky were falling.  “Still on earth.  Really none?”  Castle’s not sure he’s flattered by her disbelief.  She flops back on to the couch, and sighs.  “I guess that’s it, then.  Nothing more I can do, except keep practising at the range.  Time to get back to New York.”  She starts to stand up.

Next instant she’s sitting back down suddenly, neatly dropping into Castle’s lap.  “We don’t need to go just yet,” he murmurs.  The intonation trickles down her spine, raises the hairs on the back of her neck, sends heat flaring into intimate places.  “The way you drive” – he kisses her neck – “we’ll be home in time for dinner even if” – he kisses round behind her ear and she wriggles  - “we stay another hour or two.”  He slips one large hand round to the nape of her neck and twirls his fingers into her hair.  “It’s completely private here.”  His other hand is occupied with the buttons of her shirt, which are entirely too tricky for convenience.  His, on the other hand, clearly are not.  Then again, Kate has much smaller fingers.  Life’s just so unfair sometimes.  Those small fingers are causing him rather bigger issues.  So to speak. 

Castle stands up without dropping or letting go of Kate, kisses her deeply and pulls her in the direction of his bedroom.  They both deserve some private time.  But this time it’ll be in his house, in his bed, with his Kate.  He undresses her slowly, playing the lady’s maid – with some refinements.  She doesn’t seem to mind.  She really doesn’t mind at all.  When she plays valet and returns the favours in kind he doesn’t mind either.  Oh no.

* * *

 

The drive back is just as terrifying as the drive out, made even worse by anticipation of what Castle knows is coming.  Kate is vocally and volubly unimpressed by his cowardice.

“Stop squeaking, Castle.  Are you a man or a mouse?”

Castle can’t stop himself squeaking again as the Ferrari slides sideways, perfectly controlled, through a corner and the engine howls.  “Eeek!  Mouse!”  He’s too petrified even to make a cheap crack about how much of a man she likes him to be.  He’s enormously relieved when they reach the city boundaries and her driving becomes perfectly sedate.  She may be a brilliant driver at speed, but he’s never been so scared in his entire life.

Still, her driving may be sedate to the outside world, but she’s – well, the only description he can find is _feeling up_ the wheel and the gearshift; he’s so glad that this is a stick shift – and it is driving him absolutely wild.  Pun very much intended.  And she knows exactly what she’s doing to him.  She’s wearing that _come-on_ bedroom smile and dark bedroom eyes and he really, _really_ , wishes that he hadn’t said he’d be back for dinner and he absolutely has to keep his hands to himself because if he does what he wants to and puts a hand on her knee she’ll have less than twenty yards before she’ll have to pull over.  It’s wholly unfair.  And she knows all of that, too.

He wrenches his thoughts away before it’s too hard to stop that line of thought ( _bad word choice, Rick_ ) and remembers something.  That kills the mood, and fast.  “Did you decide if you wanted to come for dinner?”  It emerges rather more hesitantly than he’d like.  He’s very tired of dancing around all the difficulties and emotions and complications that his family are causing him, and he’d like nothing better than to say _screw it_ and just go home with Kate, get takeout and stay there.  For the first time ever in their whole messy relationship, Kate is less complicated than any other option might be.  Negotiating her current state is relatively simple, compared to negotiating his daughter’s adolescent tantrum and his mother’s well-meant but deceptive efforts to mediate between them. 

Kate considers.  Does she _want_ to come?  Well, _no_.  Emphatically not.  If she could be sure Martha and Alexis weren’t there, maybe.  She’s no desire to see them whilst the memory of her humiliating collapse is still raw.  Though from what Castle’s said, Martha at least has come round.  Probably.  Castle is all too inclined to see good in everything and everyone.  She smoothly draws the Ferrari to a halt at the signal.  Alexis… is clearly a problem.  On green, she glides away.  But not her problem, though she will have no hesitation in dealing with direct rudeness.  But Castle and even Martha will likely do that for her.  And also, if Martha hasn’t come tripping round her, full of dramatic atonement and apology, trying to make her _talk_ (ugh), then maybe it could be okay.  She halts at another red light, waits, pulls off again, perfectly.

 _Should_ she go?  She needs to face them down, face it down, recover her own pride.  She knows, too, just how much Castle wants her to come to his as freely as he comes to hers; how much he wants her to treat it as a home.  There’s a scary thought.  She hasn’t even shared her letters with him yet: how can she contemplate that other step?  But if she goes to the loft tonight, she can uncover the wound caused by the flashback, at least, and give it air to heal.  And if she’s faced down a gun, all day, then she’s Detective Beckett again, perhaps a little shakily, yet, but definitely Detective Beckett, not scaredy-cat Kate.  She can deal with whatever this evening throws at her, now she’s back in business.

Automatically, she’s followed the familiar route to the loft, and here they are.  Looks like her subconscious has decided for her.

“I guess I’m coming to dinner.”

Kate pulls into Castle’s parking space and carefully fails to surrender the keys.  Unfortunately Castle notices the deliberate forgetfulness.

“Hand them over, Kate.”

“Hand what over?” she says innocently.

“ _My_ car keys.”  She stares blandly at him.  He holds out a large hand, meaningfully.  “Give me them back.  Please.”

“Oh.  _These_ keys?”  She dangles them much as he had earlier.

“Those keys.”  He makes to retrieve them and is entirely unsurprised when they’re whisked away.

“I thought I’d keep them for a while.  It’s a nice car you’ve got there, Castle.  Could I borrow it for a day or two?”  She’s smirking, still holding the keys away from him.

“No, I’m not letting you drive it again.  You’re scarier behind the wheel than Stephen King’s Christine.  Keys, please.”  Her eyes sparkle, still darkened.

“If I don’t?” she says provocatively.

Castle smiles hungrily.  “I’ll take them anyway.”

“You and whose army?”  But she’s still smiling.

“I won’t need” – and he grabs her – “an army.”  He peels her fingers away from the keys, perfectly well aware that she’s letting him, that he’d have to exert far more force than he’d ever be comfortable with to stop her leaving him writhing in pain on the floor, and takes the opportunity to steal a kiss.  “Down payment,” he murmurs seductively, “for borrowing my car.  I’ll collect the balance later.”  He moves against her, a foretaste of _later_ , and hears her breath catch.  In that moment, if he could have made his family disappear temporarily – all night, say – he would have.  Because Kate’s playing with him, just as she has all the way back, her hips swaying enticingly all the way to the elevator, and he wants to play too.

Upstairs at the loft Martha is reclining on the couch, but Alexis is nowhere to be seen.

“Ah, darling, you’re back.  And Katherine too, how lovely.”  Castle is instantly suspicious of his mother’s airy tone and casual words.

“What’s wrong, Mother?”  He has a horrible idea.  “Please tell me you haven’t cooked.”  Martha sniffs offendedly.

“After the note you left me, Richard?  Certainly not.  If you wish to be Escoffier, be my guest.”

Castle breathes a long sigh of relief.  Kate looks confused.  “Note?  Cooking?” Castle jumps in before his mother can.

“Mother tried to cook yesterday but failed to interpret the recipe correctly.  So instead of a teaspoon of salt, whatever it was supposed to be got a tablespoon.”  Kate appears to be having some difficulty breathing, if the purple hue to her face is anything to go by.  “I told her not to try tonight.  I don’t need to be poisoned at home.  I can manage that at any greasy diner.”   Martha huffs.

“Don’t listen to Richard.  I can cook just fine.”

“As long as it comes in a Styrofoam box,” Castle interjects.  Kate recovers her breath, not without some difficulty and the odd suppressed whoop.

“What are you cooking, Castle?  I’m hungry.  Feed me, please.”  Castle looks pained. 

“What am I, the home help?”

“No, you’re the cook.”  She grins mischievously, able to ignore the tension with Martha’s presence as she rags on Castle.  “And chief washer-up.”  Castle makes childishly scrunched-up faces at her, but starts to open and shut cupboards and the fridge, clearly looking for ingredients.  His fridge, Kate notices, is considerably better stocked than hers; even if she is cooking and eating properly.

The ingredients for a baked chicken dish with a creamy, gentle sauce, on pappardelle, are eventually located, and Castle, with some help from Kate and none at all from Martha, puts it all together with considerable efficiency, slides it into the oven, sets a timer – and then a second one to alert him, he says, to when it’s time to cook the pappardelle – and finally finds a bottle of Alsace Gewurtztraminer that he insists will be good and pours large glasses for all.  They’re all tiptoeing around the tension of not talking about the previous attempt at dinner.  Perhaps, Castle thinks, if they all have enough wine they might solve matters.  It had worked before, at Kate’s.  It’s not till he drops on to the couch that he notices the obvious absence.

“Where’s Alexis?” 

“She went to Paige’s,” Martha says.  “She said she’d be home for dinner.”  But Martha’s looking very slightly self-conscious.  Kate observes her small tells and knows that matters are not going to go well, in around a minute.  Sure enough...

“Did she see the note I left this morning?”  Martha’s colour rises, just a little.  Just enough for Castle to see it.  “Mother...?” 

Kate takes the path of least resistance and excuses herself.  She has no physical need to, but she thinks that it might be better to be out the way for a few moments.  Histrionics are not her favourite form of entertainment.  And, she thinks, the chance to investigate Castle’s bookshelves could usefully be taken while he’s otherwise occupied.  Also his bedroom.  She’s only been in it whilst suffering from flashback, two nights ago, while he’s... spent quite some time in hers.  She feels she ought to reconnoitre.  Knowing the layout might be helpful, at some time.  Soon. 

She slips into the bedroom as cautiously as if she were entering a suspect’s apartment, and examines it with the same intensity, committing it to memory.  It’s very… male.  Dark wood, plain dark linens, no fuss.  It also smells indefinably of Castle.  She bounces a little on the bed.  Might as well know how it feels, when she’s able to appreciate it.  Mmmm.  She bounces a little more, then lies back and looks around.  This is very seriously comfortable.  Still very unexpectedly masculine, though, for the wholly metrosexual Castle.  Well, outside the bedroom he behaves like the complete metrosexual.  Inside… not so much.  Mmmm.  She realises she’s behaving like a giddy teen with her first real boyfriend and resists the temptation to snuggle into the pillows and breathe in essence of Castle.  But only just.  Instead, she goes back to Castle’s well-stocked bookshelves, selects one of her favourites – and then goes back to his bedroom and his exceedingly comfortable bed.  She knows she’s behaving like a sap, but being surrounded by Castle-ness is very, very reassuring.  She confidently expects that dinner is going to be almost as difficult as the very first time, although at least this time the three adults are probably aligned.  Still.  A bit of pre-emptive reassurance is required.  She curls into the pillows and opens the book.

Castle knows exactly why Kate’s disappearing and is grateful for her tact.  He is perfectly sure that his mother is going to tell him something that he isn’t going to like: he just needs to know what it is.

“Mother, did Alexis see that note?”

“Yes, dear.  She did.”  Okay, one problem solved.  He’d worried that his mother had read it and hidden it to stop Alexis knowing that he’d spent the day with Kate, and thereby causing him another issue – this time his mother’s conflict avoidance techniques.  Ten seconds later he wishes she had.

“And?”

“She wasn’t very happy, Richard.”  Castle gives his mother a very direct look.

“How do you mean, she _wasn’t very happy_?”

His mother, most unusually, squirms in her seat.  “Mother, stop trying to protect Alexis” – he thinks for a second, then carries on – “or me from whatever she said or did,  and just tell me what happened.  If you can’t do that, I’ll ask her.  I can’t deal with this appropriately if I don’t know what went on.”

“She said that you didn’t care about spending time with her, only about Katherine, and...” 

“And?  Precisely.”

Martha’s voice drops to a level only audible a foot or so away. “...if you were stupid enough to ignore your family because you’re chasing after a selfish, screwed-up woman who’ll get you shot, Alexis would leave as soon as Stanford accepts her.”  She looks deeply upset and concerned.  “I don’t know what’s wrong, Richard.  She can’t seem to understand that Katherine isn’t any of that.  I don’t think this is about Katherine at all.  I think Alexis is just projecting”-

“Is that a word you learned for your life coaching classes?”  Castle’s diverting himself from what’s abruptly become a far more serious problem than he’d imagined.  After the fiasco of the prop gun, he’d thought Alexis had understood Kate’s issue.  After the moderately disastrous conversation on Saturday, he’d still hoped that it was a temporary aberration and she’d recover her normal, mature, understanding self shortly.  Seems he’d been wrong.

“Shush. I think she’s projecting everything else that she’s upset or worried about on to Katherine.  And the summer gave her the perfect excuse.”

“Why on to Kate, then, if you’re being a psychiatrist?”

“Oh, Richard.  Don’t be more of a fool than you can help.  It’s obvious.  Up till she was shot” - there’s a slight hitch on the word – “Katherine was something of a role model for Alexis.  Independent, feisty, successful, happy” – Castle thinks that Kate’s something of an actress herself, if that’s all Alexis, or his mother, saw – “and a… friend… of yours.  And then Katherine got her that short piece of work at the precinct for school, and Alexis saw how a real woman operates in real life.  Not like watching your exes, darling.”  Martha swallows a large gulp of her wine, and resumes.  “Katherine is probably the first time Alexis has ever seen a normal working woman, rather than pretty arm-candy who can’t act.”  Castle recognises the description of Meredith (and one or two others) without effort.  It’s a bit unfair on Gina, though: whatever her manifold faults, she works very hard and is very, very good at what she does.

“You’ve successfully protected Alexis from almost all the nastiness in the world, even while you’ve been trailing round behind the cops for three years and seen and heard some horrible things, and then a truly horrible thing happened right in front of her.  Katherine got shot.  Suddenly life all became rather too real.  And she realised that if it could happen to Katherine, who she thought of as more-or-less invincible, that could happen to you too.”  Another gulp of wine.  “You couldn’t shield her from that.”  Castle says nothing, stunned by the story his mother’s unfolding.  Maybe she was good at life coaching, after all.  Maybe he should have taken her offer to coach him up, then.  Maybe he wouldn’t be trying to deal with his daughter’s opposition to his decisions about his life.  So many maybes, and all of them wasted.

“And then you sent her away all summer.  Did you tell her why?”  Castle doesn’t remember much about those first two days, except that he had to keep Alexis safe.  He doesn’t remember if he told her why.  All he can remember is visiting ICU, and the tubes and wires, and Kate, so small and still and white, barely alive.  He could never have seen Alexis like that, couldn’t take the slightest risk with her life.  He shakes his head.

“I don’t remember.  I just had to keep her safe.”  He can’t say any more about it than that.

“She thinks you pushed her aside to look after Katherine.”  It’s as blunt as Martha has ever been.  “It might just about have been okay, in Alexis’s eyes, if Katherine had met expectations and been with you when Alexis got back from camp, but then she ran off.  Really, Richard, do _think_ for a change.”  He takes that on the chin.  It seems he hasn’t really thought about Alexis’s motives at all, which is unwarrantedly stupid, for someone whose entire life revolves around writing motives half the week and thinking them up at the Twelfth the other half.  He does as he’s told, and thinks, noticing idly that Kate still hasn’t returned.  He expects she’s found a book, and curled up in his study.


	64. I ain't even high

“So, Mother, you think that Alexis is feeling pushed out?  But I’ve spent more time with her since she came back than usual, just to stop that.”  There’s a distinctly plaintive note in his voice.  He’d tried to do the right thing, to show Alexis that he loves her just as much as ever, that she means as much to him, that she isn’t being pushed out – and none of it appears to have registered at all.

“But in all this time you’ve spent with her, you haven’t talked to her about the important things, have you?”  Martha’s brisk, acerbic tone cuts right through his self-pity.  “You haven’t mentioned why you sent her to camp, what you think about Stanford” – ouch, that’s nasty – “or Katherine.  Yes, some or all of that is private, but you’ve always talked to her pretty openly and now you haven’t.  How do you _think_ she feels?”

Oh.  His mother’s a pretty good psychiatrist, after all.  Still, that can’t be it.

“The first two, okay, though I wasn’t going to stop her chasing her dream when she’s good enough to get to Stanford.  But I’ve never discussed my girlfriends with Alexis – or you – and I’m not starting now.”

“You’ve never brought them home, either.  Not unless you were going to marry them.”  Oh.  Another thing he should have seen.  Kate had seen it, at least partway – if she’d seen the whole picture he’s… not quite sure what she’d have done, now.  Maybe not run away entirely.  _Why are you rubbing their noses in it_ , she’d said.  He leaves the implications of what he’d been doing for later.  If he starts down that line, it’s not really going to help right now.  Though it’s a good thought.  He likes that thought.  Some day…

“No, Mother.  That story doesn’t make sense.  There’s more to this.  What you’ve said is only half a plot.  If that were all, Alexis would have come round as soon as she’d understood about the flashbacks – like you did.  What aren’t you saying?”

Martha’s mouth is half open on the rest of her part-formed thoughts when the front door opens and Alexis comes in, ill-temper and a fair degree of misery washing around her. 

“Hi Grams.”  Pause.  “Dad.” 

“Hi, pumpkin.  Did you have a nice time with Paige?”

“Yes.”  Alexis makes for the stairs to put her bag away.  Her tone doesn’t invite further questions.

Private conversation with his mother evidently ended, Castle goes searching for Kate and fails to find her where he expected her, curled in the largest armchair in his study.  He chases away the idiotic thought that she’s thought better of staying for dinner and exited through the fire escape like a cat burglar, and investigates a little further.  He’s knocked back on his heels when he sees her stretched out on his bed, against his pillows, reading.  The sight of her there just… rocks his world.  He stands in the doorway for a minute, unable to do anything but look.

“Staring is still creepy, Castle.”  Oh.  She’s realised he’s there, gazing at her like a lovestruck fool. ( _That’s because you are, Rick_ , says an unhelpful little voice.)  He pulls himself together and gets some game on, though her hair spread over his pillows is really not helping his self-control.  He’s dreamed about this for years: Beckett in his bed.  Reality, even fully clothed, is better.  Much better.  Especially now he knows what’s under the clothes.

“I’d do more than just stare, but dinner’s nearly ready and Alexis is home.  She’s… er… not in a good mood.”  Kate doesn’t exactly look surprised at that news.  “I don’t know what’s wrong with her.  Mother thinks it’s not you at all, it’s me she’s actually angry with.  I think there’s more to it.”  He looks pleadingly at her.  “If you get the chance… would you get all Detective Beckett with her?  Interrogate her, I mean.  She’s already behaving so badly with you and me that it can’t get any worse, and…”  Kate’s looking at him as if he’s run mad.  “…and you’re the best ever at interrogation.”

“Have you been dropping acid out there?”

“No.”

“Are you absolutely sure?  This sounds crazier than your CIA-meets-Alien theories.”

“It’ll help, honest.  Alexis won’t be able to hide if you ask the questions.  Maybe we’ll find out what’s wrong and then we can fix it.”  _We_?  thinks Kate.  What’s this _we_?  She has no right to get involved at all.

“So, Castle.  Your daughter already hates me, she’s in a bad mood before she even knows I’m here, and you think that _me_ questioning her is going to improve matters?  What you really mean is _Please will you do my dirty work for me so my daughter doesn’t hate me more_ , isn’t it?”  Kate does not sound impressed at all.  Castle wriggles uncomfortably against the doorpost.  He doesn’t like it, put that way, the less so because it’s so obviously true.  “You’re avoiding dealing with her.  Man up, Castle.”  Ow.  Ow, ow, ow.  That’s true, too.  He’d resolved that he wasn’t going to avoid the hard choices.

“You’re right.”  He sounds hang-dog.  “I need to do it.  I need to find out what’s really wrong.”  He droops, miserably.  Kate isn’t finished, though.  She’s not going to interfere between family members, but there’s another likely scenario where she does have a right to get into the mix.

“But.  If Alexis is actually rude to me, but not to you as well, let me handle it.  Privately.”  He stares at her.  “I am _not_ going to interfere between you and your family.  No way.  Not my business.  But if Alexis is directly rude to me, I think I should deal with that.  As long as you’re okay with that?”  The last sentence is a little uncertain.

Castle perceives the cleverness of Kate’s idea, slightly belatedly.  “So you won’t get involved, or interrogate her for me – but if she’s unpleasant to you, you won’t feel the same restrictions?”  Kate nods.

“I’m not doing your dirty work.  You need to do that.  I’ll do my own, if I have to.  I really hope I don’t need to.  But you’d better let your mother know, because the last thing you want is her getting in the way if this is really how you wanna play this.”  She looks very seriously at Castle.  “I think this could either work really well, or backfire really badly.  You’re her parent.  Are you sure you want to do this?  Because it’s not too late for me to go home and give you the space to deal with this privately.”  She grins, quickly.  “I want a doggy bag for my dinner if I do, though.  It smells really good.”

Castle thinks very carefully.  He needs to do the hard work here.  Just a few days, and he’s already trying to back off his good resolutions to run his own life and sort out his own conflicts.  Aargh.  Changing is so much harder than the self-help books would have you believe.  If he’s going to control his own life, then he has to start here: because he is not going to let his daughter’s views define his relationship with Kate.  He also doesn’t like the idea that he will be less in Kate’s eyes if he fails to make his own decisions.

“Yes.  I want to – well, I don’t want to – but I have to.  I love Alexis, but she can’t run my life.  She won’t even be here in a year, whether Stanford accepts her or not.  She’ll be at college and she won’t live here then, she’ll want to move out.”  He can’t help sounding wistful.  Kate nods, a slightly distant look in her eyes.  He thinks she’s remembering when she left home – for Stanford, too.  “If she’s rude to you, do what you think you have to.  Otherwise, it’s my problem to deal with.”

“Don’t worry, Castle.  I have no desire at all to meddle in your parenting.  Absolutely none.”  Kate looks quite horrified at the thought that she might be asked to do anything parental at all.  

“C’mon.  Dinner’s ready.”  But as Kate slithers off the bed – how depressing - and walks to the door, Castle catches her into a hug.  “Thank you,” he murmurs into her ear.  “Thanks for helping me.”

Dinner is indeed ready.  Martha has set the table and found another bottle of wine, just in case (she thinks) they need it.  Castle exchanges some short, quiet sentences with Martha, who raises her eyebrows rather disbelievingly and then nods, clearly unconvinced but evidently willing to give it a go. 

Kate takes a place next to Castle, where, if necessary, she can give, or indeed take, reassurance if required.  Though she’s still feeling very much her old self, much to her surprise.  By this stage – indeed, the moment she entered the loft - she’d expected to be tense and unhappy.  Maybe it had simply been the shock of the gun in a place she’d never expected one.  She doesn’t seem to be reacting badly to the loft itself, and she’s faced down Espo in a situation she understands: cops, vests, guns.  Martha hasn’t tried to be overpoweringly emotional, though that thought comes with a stray _yet_ attached, however hard she tries not to be cynical.  She’s sure Martha wants more than just brief, casual conversation over dinner.  Though the much larger issue is currently not-quite-stomping downstairs.  Forecast: stormy, with a chance of hurricanes.  That chance becomes a near-certainty when Alexis notices Kate.  It’s quite clearly a very unwelcome surprise. 

Kate, however, now in detective mode, takes a long, assessing, and entirely discreet look over Alexis.  Hmm.  Angry, yes; unhappy to see her, yes – thoroughly miserable, yes.  That doesn’t look, to the experienced (but much younger than Martha) female eye, like the real problem is either Kate or Castle (though Kate is sure that they are large contributing factors).  That looks very like boy trouble.   Well now.  If there’s one thing Kate is an expert on, it’s relationship problems.  Not just the recent ones, either.  She’d had a varied experience, as a late teen.  Well now, again.  This might just be a much simpler mystery than Castle thinks.  If this isn’t at least partly driven by problems with – what’s his name?  Oh yes – Ashley, Kate will eat her best Manolo Blahniks.  Unsalted.  She says hello pleasantly but not effusively, in just the way she would if Alexis came by the precinct looking for Castle.  Detective Beckett talking to a teen is written all over her.  She’s quite sure that whatever happens, if she has to get involved she’s got this.

Castle is nervous.  He recognises all the signs in Alexis of the temper Meredith is capable of displaying; all of which he’d previously thought she’d avoided.  He needs to escape the learned reaction of deflecting or evading the looming row.  He slides his fingers into Kate’s, below the level of the table, and draws some strength from the cool clasp.  He notes in passing that Kate seems to be very firmly back to being Beckett, since she’d finished with Esposito.  He reminds himself, yet again, that he is an adult, he does know what he is doing, and he has the right, and authority, to sort this out.  It’s not really helping.

Alexis barely manages to reply to Kate, though it’s just close enough to _hello_ that no-one needs to make an issue of it.  She sits down opposite her father and looks fixedly at her plate.  Martha starts a conversation about the new class at her school, who, it would appear, are composed entirely of undiscovered Bacalls and Bogarts – at least, they will become so under her tutelage. That takes them most of the way through the baked chicken. Castle indulges in a few wry comments on how, if that were so, she’ll surely be the toast of Hollywood shortly, but that it seems a little unlikely, and Alexis says not one word.  Until, that is, Kate makes a rather disingenuous reference to how difficult she’d found drama, when she’d tried it at high school.

“Really, Detective Beckett?  I think you’re doing a pretty good job of acting.  You’re acting like you care about Dad.  We all know you don’t, though.  If you’d cared about him at all you wouldn’t have left.”  Martha sucks in a breath, and Castle turns white.  That’s opening your account with a vengeance.  Beckett doesn’t turn a hair.  This is now a case to solve, and she’s faced down considerably worse than this in the precinct.  She’d faced down the man who’d killed her mother.  Alexis has nothing on that.  She’s just an angry child.  She can handle this with her eyes shut.

“Alexis.  I think you and I should discuss this in private.  Clearly you have some matters that you want to discuss with me.  Castle, is there somewhere we can go?”

“Study.”  Castle looks bleakly at Alexis.  “I think you should go with Detective Beckett.  If you’ve got something to say to her, this is your chance.  Grams and I will stay here.”

Beckett’s already risen, and her posture doesn’t allow for disagreement.  Castle recognises it from taking suspects in.  Alexis, seeing all three adults ranged against her, doesn’t argue.  She stomps across to the study door and launches herself inside.  Beckett follows in the cool, calm and controlled manner that she’s perfected by entering interrogation rooms over ten years of police work.  The door shuts firmly behind her.  Martha looks massively disappointed with that.

In the study, Beckett takes Castle’s chair and leans on the desk, seemingly at ease.  “Well, Alexis, what have you to say to me?”

“You don’t care about Dad.  You never did.  If you did you wouldn’t have left.  Now you’ve come back and you’re taking my Dad away.  You’ll get him killed.”  Beckett waits, exactly as she would at work.  “Because of you he won’t talk to me and he sent me away all summer.  And it’ll be your fault that he’s left alone when I go to Stanford.”  More waiting, but Alexis seems to be finished.  Beckett leans forward.

“Why are you so desperate to leave for Stanford, if it’s going to leave your Dad all on his own?  You’re criticising me for leaving in the summer, though you know that every time I looked at him I died all over again, so if my reasons – dying - weren’t good enough, what are yours?  They must be pretty good reasons, to outweigh dying.  So why don’t you enlighten me?”

From the look on Alexis’s face, being asked to justify her own decision is certainly not what she’d expected.  Nor, it seems, had she expected cool, in control Detective Beckett, as opposed to either furious Detective Beckett or shell-shocked, half-fainting Kate.  There’s a considerable pause.  Beckett remains completely silent, radiating neither anger nor sympathy.

“Dad supported me going.  He didn’t agree with you leaving him.”

“Your father has been supporting my recovery, and has accepted my reasons for going upstate.  What’s the difference?”  Another very lengthy silence.

“You don’t care about him.  You’ll get him killed.  I won’t.”

“Your father decided to follow me.  Why are you blaming me for his decision?  But you’re going to leave him for Stanford, and you haven’t explained what your reasons are, or why your reasons for leaving are more justifiable than mine.  Let’s go back to that, Alexis.  Why are you so eager to leave, when – you say – your father needs you so much?  Surely if you love him as much as you say, you’d want to stay and make sure he was okay?  Especially since you’ve made it clear you think I won’t be here.”  More chill silence, unrippled by words or gestures. 

Eventually, in a very small voice, Alexis says, “I’ve a right to my own life.  And it’s at Stanford, with Ashley.”

“Ah.  Ashley.  Your boyfriend.  How’s that going?”  Beckett doesn’t take the obvious line: _if you’re entitled to your life your father is entitled to his_.  That’s not likely to work.  Yet.  Or from Beckett, ever.

“It’s fine.”  Beckett knows that definition of fine, in that tone, inside out, upside down and round about.  _Fine_ , that means, like she meant she was _fine_ the day she sent Castle home from the hospital and promptly left New York.

“Is he looking forward to seeing you?”

“Yes!”  That’s so emphatic it’s got to be covering up a lie.  Criminals assure her it wasn’t them with that same emphasis, just before she proves it was.

“When’s he coming back to visit?”  Beckett drops into a soft, gentle, enquiring tone, as if Alexis’s words are the greatest story ever told.

“Christmas.  His schedule’s too busy before then.”  But Alexis doesn’t look like she wholly believes that.  She’s also dropped a lot of the hostility, caught up in the give and take of the questioning, the unexpected topic, and the soft, lulling voice.  _Just talk to me.  I’ll make it all better if you tell me everything._

“Isn’t he coming home for Thanksgiving?  That’s a long time away.  I’m sure your father would take you there, if not.  How often do you speak?”

“I call him daily.”  Interesting phrasing.

“And you talk about…?”

“He calls me back when he can, and we talk about the course, and who he’s met, and his new friends” – Beckett raises a mental eyebrow – “and the dorms, and everything.  He’s having a really good time.”  Ah.  Beckett just bets he is.  Gradually, Alexis is being coaxed into giving fuller answers.

“Will you meet all these new friends?  What are they like?”  Alexis hesitates slightly, looks slightly unsure.  Beckett allows a sympathetic noise to escape, watches the girl respond to it.  _Time to share a little, draw the suspect out, make them think you’re on their side.  Which you are.  Until you aren’t any more._

“You  know, when I went to Stanford” – ah, Alexis had forgotten that, if she’d ever known.  _See, I have something you want_ – “I was terrified.  Everyone else seemed so mature, so together.  I felt really young and out of my depth.”  There’s a swift flash of recognition across Alexis’s face.  _Gotcha_ , thinks Beckett.


	65. Take these broken wings

“It was really difficult, the first term.  I was one of the youngest there, and I didn’t even go for early admission.  A lot of the freshmen were old enough to drink, and I didn’t get invited along because I couldn’t pass for twenty-one.  The bartenders are really clued up on fake ID.”  Alexis snickers, obviously unable to imagine Beckett as a naïve teen sporting fake ID.   “It got a bit lonely.”  Only some of that is true.  Beckett could certainly pass for twenty-one.  From age seventeen.  And she was only lonely if she wanted to be.  But the Stanford bartenders are very clued up on fake ID.

Alexis has been soothed into forgetting where she is and who she’s talking to.  Beckett notes it with considerable professional pleasure.  She can do this.  It’s who she is.

“Really?”

“Really.  But you’ll be okay.  You’ve got Ashley, haven’t you?  He’ll make sure he stays with you if you can’t go to the bars.”  Beckett knows exactly what she’s pushing on.  Every word she says, Alexis winces, just a fraction.  She’s not at all sure about Ashley, is she?  Beckett can read this mystery like it’s one of Castle’s books, every single word familiar.  Boy trouble driving this mess, for sure.  First serious boyfriend.  In the back of her mind, she wonders how far they’d gotten.  This feels pretty serious to her.  So simple, when she takes a little time, does her job.  She hasn’t even had to intimidate her suspect.  The right tone and incentives, a little shared experience, a little empathy – and she’d rolled right over.

“You think?”  Alexis says, very uncertainly indeed.

“Why wouldn’t he?  He says he loves you, doesn’t he?”  Alexis’s lip quivers.  Beckett doesn’t twitch so much as an eyelash to show that she’s noticed, keeps the positive tone, watches Alexis quiver some more.  “He’ll _want_ to spend his time with you.”  Twist the skewer, just a little.  “He won’t mind if his friends go without him occasionally.”

“He tells me about his friends.  They’re really important to him.”  Alexis’s face crumples.  “He’s always with them.  He doesn’t have time to talk to me any more.  He says he loves me but he never talks to me any more.”  She’s sobbing now.   Beckett’s broken her suspect.  “What’ll I do when I get to Stanford?  I think he’s ditched me.  Ashley’s ditched me and Dad doesn’t need me any more.”  Her head’s down on her arms.  Beckett slips silently from the desk, unnoticed by Alexis, gently opens the study door and beckons Castle in. 

“I think Alexis needs you.”  She slides out as Castle slides in and shuts the door softly behind her.  Martha looks at her.

“What’s going on, Katherine?”  Beckett smiles gently.

“Just a little father-daughter bonding.  About time, don’t you think?”  Martha looks at her, open-mouthed. 

“What did you do?”  Beckett’s smile acquires a slightly sharper edge. 

“What I’m good at.  Interrogation.  Alexis was a lot easier to break than most suspects.”  Martha looks slightly horrified at the cool tone and statement.  “What?  It’s about time this was resolved.  Did you want this to carry on?  Hurting Castle, and hurting Alexis?”  She doesn’t say anything about her own views and feelings.  “I think it might be time for me to go home.  Castle’s going to be a little busy for a while.  You can deal with the rest of Alexis’s issues relating to her father, or to me, some other time.”

Martha can’t find the words to stop her leaving; simply watches Detective Katherine Beckett strut – there is no other word to describe it – confidently out the door, just like she’s seen Katherine leave before, after a successful result.  As the door shuts, she thinks that she’s missed her chance to have a nice chat.  It’s fairly clear that Katherine is pretty much back to normal.  It won’t stop Martha trying, though.

Kate picks up a cab on the street and goes home.  She thinks that’s been rather successful, though she’s only too glad that she doesn’t have to work with children.  She understands why Alexis was so upset about Ashley, but she’s still unsure why that should have spilled over on to Castle, still less on to her, rather than Alexis dealing with them separately.  Why ever it did, with a bit of luck Castle will be able to mend matters with Alexis and life can return to almost normal.  When she reaches her apartment, she thinks, she’ll have a further glass of wine (it won’t be as good as Castle’s, but she knows how to pick a bottle) and relax.  She wants to consider the day, the shooting, what she needs to talk to Dr Burke about (she wonders if he’ll have stopped cringing), and the week ahead, before re-evaluation on Thursday, and requalification on Friday.  If that goes well - and she doesn’t, now, let herself think that it won’t – then she’ll be back at work on Monday next, the four of them all back together and back to catching killers.  About time, too.  She wants to be back, not in the same frantic this-is-all-I-am way of even a fortnight ago, but because it’s what she does best. 

She settles into her couch with her wine and relaxes, thoroughly content and at ease with the world.  She taps out a short text to Castle, simply explaining that she’s gone home so he’s got freedom to deal with Alexis without distractions and asking if he wants to come to Central Park tomorrow, ten-thirty, usual place, then turns her mind to her session with Dr Burke, early tomorrow morning.

She needs to talk about her reaction to guns, and whether he thinks that her self-help will be sufficient.  She needs to talk about her psych re-evaluation, and whether he thinks that she’ll pass, and anything else she needs to consider.  She probably ought to mention that she and Castle are together.  She might discuss how to deal with Alexis, though she’s not sure that that will be an issue any more.  Not for her, anyway.  She’s perfectly content to have no further involvement in that.  Castle’s problem to solve, this, not hers.  She doubts she’ll ever have the sort of relationship with Alexis that would mean that her input would be wanted.

The rest of the week should be fairly simple, she thinks.  She can go to both ranges, and on Thursday  she’ll take on Castle, just ahead of requalification.  She doesn’t expect to win, but she’ll give it her best shot.  Pun definitely intended.  It’s certainly worth a serious try. 

* * *

 

Back at the loft, Castle’s put a gentle arm around his sobbing daughter, and just like she used to when she was much younger, she leans into him to be consoled.  Finally, her sobs diminish to sniffles, her eyes red and pale face blotchy when she looks up at her father.

“Dad,” she says pathetically.  Castle hugs her close, but doesn’t say anything for a beat.  He’s frantically working out how to deal with the next few minutes.  First, he thinks, the story, the truth, the explanation.  Then the rest will follow.

“What’s wrong, pumpkin?  Tell me.”  More sniffles, while it all starts to spill out.

“Ashley’s breaking up with me and then you were so unhappy when I got back and so was I and you wouldn’t talk to me and it all got mixed up and it was all the same reason and you’d sent me away and Ashley went away like Detective Beckett went away and it was totally awful and… and I’m sorry, Dad.”  The last words are a tearful wail that tears at Castle’s parental heartstrings.  Alexis is still repeating _I’m sorry, I’m sorry_ into his soaked shirt.  Whatever Kate had done, and however she’d done it – he hadn’t heard a single raised voice – it’s clearly worked.  But.  But he can’t leave it at that and just let this pass, wholly forgiven without atonement.  He’d not done it with Kate, so he’s certainly not going to do it with Alexis. 

“Start again, pumpkin.  Start with Ashley.  What’s going on there?”

Alexis’s eyes puddle again.  “I think he’s ditched me,” she sniffs damply.  Castle experiences a shaft of fury that any callow, blind, stupid adolescent boy should reject _his_ daughter, and tamps it down.   It won’t help.  Though he thinks that teaching that little squirt a serious lesson would.  _Get back on track, Rick._

“Why would he want to do that?”

“I don’t know!”  Another almost-wail.  “He’s made all these new friends who are like older and they’re totally cool and he spends all his time with them and he never has any time for me.  He’s not even coming home at Thanksgiving and he said he would.”

“That’s pretty disappointing.”

“If I’d seen him all summer maybe it wouldn’t have happened but you sent me away to camp and I never got to see him before I went and when I came back he’d already gone.”

Ah.  He  _hadn’t_ explained why, lost in the terror and panic and utter misery of those first days, reacting without thought.

“Alexis.” The serious tone cuts through the weeping.  “I sent you away in the summer to keep you safe.  When Kate got shot, I just couldn’t have borne it if it had been you.  So I got you out Manhattan, away from it all.” 

“Grams said,” Alexis whispers slowly, to herself, “when it came to the big stuff, you step up.”  And much louder, “Why didn’t you tell me that?  I’d have understood that.  I thought you were just sending me away so you could be at the hospital all the time.”

That’s rather too close to the truth for comfort, though it had been a very secondary reason.  “My first thought was to keep you alive.”  That’s blunt, and Alexis flinches.  It’s clear she’d never thought of that.  “Secondarily, I didn’t want you in that atmosphere, waiting to see if Kate would die.”  He stops, the stab of that thought still heart-stopping, agonising.  He can still see the tubes and wires, the intravenous blood and saline, hear the beeping of the machines that had, somehow, kept her alive.  _Oh.  That’s why I want Kate here.  Because of the nightmares then.  So I know she’s alive._   Though being with her has been almost enough to make him forget the dreams.

“Now.  Why didn’t you tell me about Ashley before?  You’ve had plenty opportunity.  I’d’ve listened.” 

Alexis looks shamefaced.  “I couldn’t.  It would’ve made it real.  I didn’t want to believe it.”  Okay.  Castle can relate to that.  He holds his daughter for a moment longer, then steps round to another chair.  He wants to see her face, for this next step.  It’s all very well the three adults theorising about Alexis’s motives, but she has to admit the real story.

“Why were you so mean to Kate?”  He’ll lance this boil, however long it takes, find the bottom of this slough.  He waits through an extended, unhappy, self-conscious silence.  He’s waited out Kate’s silences, these last few weeks, and not only does he have no rights over Kate whatsoever, she’s a lot more complex than Alexis.  “We need to sort this out, Alexis.  You’re not leaving this room until I understand what’s been going on with you.”  Alexis starts at the authoritative tone.  Eventually, she starts to falter out words.

“You were with her all the time, and you’d sent me away.  And then she ran away and ditched you.  Just like Ashley is breaking up with me.  She didn’t even have the guts to tell you – just like Ashley.”  Alexis pauses.  “And then you just forgave her straight off like it didn’t matter that she’d hurt you so badly.”  Another pause.  “Except then it turned out that, even though she hurt you, she had a good reason for leaving you.  A really good reason.  And that made me feel worse because Ashley didn’t.”  Pause.  “And I couldn’t stand seeing you with her and happy when I was so miserable.  I knew it was really awful but I couldn’t.”

“So you were unhappy about Ashley, and jealous, and you took it out on Kate.  Not on me.”  It’s not a question.  Alexis starts to cry again.  She’s being forced to look at her own behaviour, and she doesn’t like any of it one bit.  “Didn’t you?”  Alexis nods.  She’s incapable of speech.  She doesn’t like dealing with this version of her soft, forgiving Dad at all.  “It was okay for you to make decisions about your life on your own – going to Stanford, for example - but it wasn’t okay for me to do the same, and you took that out on Kate too?”    She nods some more, thoroughly ashamed of herself.  All she’d seen was her own hurt, and her Dad forgiving when she couldn’t.  “Why did you take it all out on Kate, Alexis?”

Alexis really doesn’t want to answer that, not least because she isn’t entirely sure herself.  There’s another extended silence while she tries to piece it together.  Detective Beckett, beautiful, clever, tough and – eurggh – hot, able simply to twitch an eyebrow and bowl men over.  And she’d not even been able to keep her own boyfriend, while Detective Beckett crooked a finger and her Dad came running.  She cringes, suddenly.  She’d been jealous that Detective Beckett could make her Dad so happy.  She couldn’t do that either, with Ashley or her Dad.  She stumbles out an explanation that just about covers that list of issues.

Castle listens in well-concealed, horrified amazement.  His mother hadn’t hit the half of it.  How had all this angst and drama occurred under his oblivious nose?

Alexis is still thinking: once started, unable to stop, like a ski crash.  She’d been angry that her Dad had looked after Detective Beckett, when she’d wanted him to see that she was totally upset.  But she’d had plenty chances: it wasn’t like her Dad had moved out, or Detective Beckett moved in.  She just hadn’t wanted to admit why she was upset.  She’d not confided in him, and then she’d been angry that he hadn’t understood.  And then she’d been even more angry that he hadn’t confided in her because he hadn’t needed to – but she had needed to.  Needed her Dad, who’d always, always been there – because Ashley wasn’t there, and wasn’t going to be.  It all comes back to Ashley, who hadn’t been  - oh.  Who hadn’t been like her Dad.  Who hadn’t been loyal, or loving, or supportive.  And her Dad had been doing all that with someone else and she’d been jealous and horrible even though – she cringes again – he’d never once made her feel left out.  She’d convinced herself that he had without any truth to it at all, because she felt left out by Ashley.  Alexis squirms internally.  She so doesn’t like herself right now.  She sniffles some more.

“Why couldn’t Ashley have been more like you?”

Castle’s fairly shocked by that.   His daughter’s never exactly made a secret of her belief that he’s an oversize child who needs looked after, although she used to be affectionately accepting of that rather than trying to use it as a control mechanism.  It’s the last thing he’d expected to hear.  He waits for something more that might explain this, trying not to look as confused as he feels.

“Why couldn’t he support me?  He made me think that he’d be there when I got to Stanford and now he won’t be.  You wouldn’t do that.”  Castle is flattered.  But he also remembers how he behaved and thought when he was nineteen, and it wasn’t particularly attractive.  Though he was ruggedly handsome, even then.  _Focus, Rick.  You’ve only got one chance to sort this out._

“Pumpkin, Ashley’s nineteen, not forty-er.  People change as they get older.  I wasn’t exactly” – he considers his words carefully, not wanting to damage this sudden effusion of respect for his character – “consistent, at nineteen.  Boys aren’t.”  Alexis doesn’t seem impressed by that. 

Castle sits quietly, waiting for all of this to sink in.  He wants, very badly, simply to forgive without further ado and that way to make everything better, but in the same way that he’d not just caved in and allowed himself to take the path of least resistance previously, he knows that if he does that now he’ll have lost his best chance to reset this relationship to one that’s much healthier.  Alexis, he notes, is still utterly miserable.

“Is there anything else you should tell me?”  Alexis shakes her head, unable to look at Castle.  She’s radiating shame.  “I think, then, you should take some time to think about all this and what you’re going to do to make it right.  You need to recognise all of our rights to our own decisions and our own lives.  I’ll be here if you want to talk some more tonight.  We’ll finish this conversation when you’re ready.  It’s not finished now, though.”  She escapes as quickly as possible.  Castle sits back in his chair and sighs.  He thought he’d been lucky enough to miss out on all the teenage dramas.  Seems like they’d all simply accumulated into one spectacularly destructive tornado.  After a few minutes of non-thought, he decides that conversing with the remains of the wine is a good idea, and vacates his study.

When he emerges Martha falls upon him, demanding to know what has gone on and how Alexis is.  Castle’s non-committal.

“Alexis has some thinking to do.  When she’s ready, she can tell you about it.  It’s up to her now.”  He looks around.  “Did Kate leave?”  He sounds very disappointed. 

“Yes.  She said you’d need a while and went home.  She seemed quite happy.”  Castle reaches for the wine and pours a substantial amount into his glass.  He’s not going anywhere tonight, given that Alexis might want him at any stage.  He’s not going to ruin this by disappearing.  He wishes that Kate had stayed, though.  Perhaps if he called, she’d come back?  That thought is negated when he discovers her text.  Likely it’s for the best, but he’d have preferred her to be here.   He could really have used some reassurance right now.


	66. Letters I've written, never meaning to send

Kate is contemplating the letters she’d never sent, late on in the evening.  The need to fix the immediate problems of shooting and facing down a gun, and then the dramas caused by Castle’s family, had allowed her to ignore them for a few days, but it’s time she thought seriously about the next step.  Once she gets back in harness it’ll be only too easy just to let them slip out her mind, let them be lost in memory, never share them, never see Castle’s.  Especially as she doesn’t want to share hers, and she’s none too sure about reading his.  But she also doesn’t want to go forward with anything other than honesty; no more running away from what she, and he, feel.  All of which leads her to one conclusion: that it’s time to hand them over.  She ought to do it now, because then there will be time, if time were to be needed, to deal with the consequences before she gets back to work.  She shivers, a chasm developing in the pit of her stomach.  This, she thinks, is definitely a make or break point.  Better, though, to know the truth.  She’ll hand them over after going to Central Park, after Castle’s come back for coffee, and send him home to read them.  She really doesn’t want him to do that when she’s around.

She expects that if she gives her letters to Castle, he’ll offer his, again, in return, and this time she’ll have to accept.  She shivers again.  Reading Castle’s letters is likely to be appallingly painful.  So much she’s guessed: from Lanie, from his reactions when she returned, from those raw discussions, late at night, where they found honesty.  She’s not going to read them, with him in the room.  Or even the same apartment block.  But if she expects him to read hers, then she can hardly do less, however agonising.  She needs to know the whole of this story, from both sides.  Only then will she be able to leave it behind and step forward: make her stand, and hope that Castle will still stand with her after seeing the unvarnished truth.

She searches out the envelope, leaves it on her desk without looking at the letters again.  If she does that, she’ll never reveal them.  She’s terrified that showing how she’d thought and what she’d felt will ruin their relationship.  It would be so easy to skate over it; ignore the history.  But those who don’t learn from history are doomed to repeat it, and they’ve made enough mistakes through not talking, not sharing, already.  And if it’s all going to go wrong, better to know it now.  She makes herself ready for bed and resists the temptation to change her mind; tries to lose herself in a book, fails; tries to soothe her roiling thoughts, fails; and eventually combines a soothing bath, a fluffy novel of no literary merit whatsoever, and hot chocolate with a healthy shot of alcohol.  Finally, she sleeps.

* * *

 

Dr Burke’s office exerts its normal soothing influence, and Dr Burke appears to have recovered his calm demeanour.  At least, if he is still flinching from her he’s hiding it very effectively.

“Kate.  What would you like to discuss today?”

“I get re-evaluated Thursday, and if I pass then weapons requalification is Friday.  Can we start there?”

“Of course.  Please carry on.”

“I was having some – problems – with guns.  First with shooting them, and then Castle’s mother was showing off a stage prop and pointed it at me.  It gave me a flashback.”  Dr Burke is not surprised by this.  He also remembers that Mr Castle had mentioned that Detective Beckett had tried to shoot, and had a flashback then too.

“When I tried to shoot the first time – about two weeks ago – I had a really bad flashback.  So after that I got Espo and Castle to get me into the range as often as I could stand, and it seems to be okay now.  I can shoot quite well enough to re-qualify.  But I wanted to know if there was anything else I should look out for when I’m shooting.”  She pauses and looks at Dr Burke enquiringly.

“How often have you been at the range, Kate?”

“Nearly every day.  Sometimes twice a day.  Castle helped me to shoot, at the beginning, but I don’t need him to help any more.”  Dr Burke raises an internal eyebrow.  He had thought that Detective Beckett and Mr Castle had resolved their position and embarked on a physical relationship, and, from certain subtle changes in her tone and body language when Mr Castle is mentioned, he is now convinced of that. 

“It seems to me, Kate, that if you are capable of shooting at the range, without any form of support from any other person, to a level which will enable you to requalify, then there is little need to worry about your ability to draw your own weapon.  However, please tell me more about the incident with the stage prop?”

“Castle’s mother and daughter were messing with a fake gun when I arrived.  His mother turned round with it in her hand and pointed it straight at me.  I had a full flashback.  Castle took me home.”  She clips that off, still unwilling to remember the humiliation of collapsing, essentially in public, when she’d thought she was better.

“How have you addressed this?”  Kate skips over the fact that she’d asked Esposito to pull a gun in the lunch bar.  On reflection, that had been a really dumb idea, which could have got him into serious trouble, and he’d been wholly right to turn her down flat.  But she doesn’t need to repeat all that.

“I asked Espo to find somewhere that he could draw on me to see what would happen.”  Dr Burke preserves his countenance, not without difficulty.  However, he has been expecting this statement, or a similarly forthright approach, ever since Mr Castle had advised him that Detective Beckett had gone to a range.  It would be too much to hope for that she might have consulted him.  

“But he wouldn’t do it without Castle being there.”  Her voice still holds traces of remembered indignation.  Dr Burke finds that statement highly interesting.  Detective Esposito, it appears, has drawn identical conclusions to those which he himself has reached regarding the provision of assistance to Detective Beckett by Mr Castle: specifically, that Mr Castle is capable, and is the only person capable, of providing Detective Beckett with the necessary support to manage her flashbacks.  Detective Beckett clearly has not entirely realised this.  In the light of her previous statement, however, it is not necessary to dwell on this aspect.  Detective Beckett does not need to be consciously aware of her dependence on Mr Castle for support.  In fact, it is probably helpful that she is not.  If she becomes aware, she will undoubtedly try to reduce that dependence, when it is far more likely that it is merely the expression of a healthy, mutually supportive relationship.  Reducing it will substantially reduce the chances of their relationship remaining well-founded.

“So we all went up to Castle’s place in the Hamptons yesterday and Espo drew on me with a training gun till I didn’t startle any more and I started reaching for my gun.”  Dr Burke raises an interrogative brow.  “I didn’t have a gun with me.  But if I had, I’d have drawn it.”

“How did you stop being startled?”

“I did what you told me.”  Dr Burke does not display any surprise.  After all, he has noted before that Detective Beckett is wholly focused on her recovery.  “Esposito drew, and when I startled I reviewed.  Just like I did in the beginning when I went for a walk.”

“And you conducted this exercise for how long?”

“A few hours.  Till it worked.”  Dr Burke is impressed by Detective Beckett’s commitment to her cure.  However, one swallow does not a summer make.  Although this is very promising, it may not be enough.

“Kate, that is extremely encouraging.  It may be that your efforts have been sufficient to dismiss or substantially reduce the likelihood of further flashbacks, although it is still likely that you will be startled, however briefly, if a weapon is drawn on you in the immediate aftermath of your return.  You should, I think, ensure, for the early weeks at least, that you are with another qualified officer.  Perhaps Detective Esposito might oblige?  Mr Castle following you will not be sufficient should you be unable to fire when required.  You may find it helpful to request, on your return to your precinct, that you attend a simulated exercise in the near future.  If that were undertaken successfully, then you might return to your normal practice of partnering solely with Mr Castle.”

“Okay.  Is this enough progress to get me through re-evaluation?  Or is there something more I should do before Thursday?”

Dr Burke considers.  Detective Beckett has, it is true, made astonishing progress.  If she is truly capable of both firing and facing a gun, then it is unlikely that she will fail re-evaluation.  She is no longer experiencing flashbacks in any situation which does not involve a drawn weapon.  She has, it appears, achieved stability in her personal life, which should enable her to overcome any other obstacles.  “I cannot see any reason you should not pass evaluation.  I would caution you to take care in the early days of your return.  Perhaps it would be sensible to allow your colleagues to take the lead in the first cases on which you are involved.”  Kate makes a face.  But she knows that Dr Burke, however annoyingly, is right.  Eventually she nods in agreement.  Anyway, he thinks she’s fit to go back, which is very good news indeed.

“Can we talk about a couple of other things?”

“If you so choose, Kate.  We have some time left in this session.”

“Castle and I are… er… involved.”  It seems like the most neutral word.  Dr Burke looks entirely unsurprised.  “I think I should give him my letters now.”  He looks interested, but still unsurprised.

“How have you reached the conclusion that now is an appropriate time for this, Kate?  After all, only a week ago you had decided that you were not ready to share these letters.  What do you think has changed?”

It’s Kate’s turn to consider carefully.  “I think… I think that we have to keep being honest.  And I don’t think I can do that if Castle doesn’t know where I’ve been, where I’ve come from.  Even though I’ve talked to him, I don’t think it’s the same as seeing what I wrote while I was going through it.  I think I need to know where he’s coming from, for the same reasons.  If we’re going to make something of this, we need to clear this out the way.  Once I’m back at the precinct, it would be too easy to hide from it.  I don’t expect to enjoy it much, though.”  From the twist to her mouth, it appears to Dr Burke that Detective Beckett is substantially understating the unpleasantness she expects to suffer.

Mmmm.  All of that inclines Dr Burke to the view that Detective Beckett has thought carefully about her capacity to absorb the emotional effects that reading Mr Castle’s letters will have.  Dr Burke momentarily turns his mind from Detective Beckett’s likely reactions to Mr Castle’s.  He does not now feel that Mr Castle is likely to be damaged by reading Detective Beckett’s letters: rather the reverse.  The letters will allow Mr Castle to consolidate his understanding, already substantial, of Detective Beckett’s underlying issues, and will allow him also to avoid triggering any continued insecurities.  It will also be exceedingly helpful for Mr Castle to see the depth of Detective Beckett’s feelings.  He returns to the consideration of Detective Beckett’s likely reaction to Mr Castle’s letters.  She will find it extremely painful, he believes.  However, she has made this decision of her own volition, and from a position of strength.  In the week since he had last seen her, Detective Beckett has re-established the last areas of her personality and has returned to a state which Dr Burke believes to be her normal behaviour.  Were he inclined to the vernacular, he would describe it as kick-ass.  He concurs with her reasoning, although he also expects, from his vivid memory of Mr Castle’s letters, that she will require an appointment shortly thereafter.  He would have preferred that Detective Beckett delayed, but there is insufficient time before she returns to work, and in Dr Burke’s professional judgement this aspect of their relationship should be resolved before it can be ignored in the pressure of the precinct.

“I do not believe that this is necessarily an unwise course of action, although I could wish that it took place a little later.  I do believe that you should be prepared for it to excite strong emotions.  I strongly counsel that you should not be present when Mr Castle reads your letters, nor should he be present if you should read his.  It is all too easy, in my experience, for immediate reactions to result in unfortunate consequences, whereas a small degree of separation and time to consider would remove such issues.”

Kate unpicks that convoluted sentence and accurately interprets it to mean that being present could - would – trigger a shattering row.  That’s okay.  She hadn’t wanted to be around when Castle was reading them anyway.  Honesty is valuable.  Stupidity is not.

“Okay.  One last thing?”

“Mmm?”

“Castle’s family had some problems with the situation.   His mother’s got over it – after she saw my flashback when she pointed a toy gun at me – but his daughter’s not happy about it at all, and she’s been making it pretty clear she doesn’t like me.  According to her I don’t care about Castle and I’ll get him killed.”

Dr Burke mulls over Detective Beckett’s words and this new complication.  He knows it to be unexceptional that Mr Castle’s daughter finds Detective Beckett’s relationship with her father difficult to accept.

“For how long has Mr Castle’s child adopted this attitude?”

“Only since I came back.  Before that she was fairly keen on me being around her Dad.  It seems to have coincided with her boyfriend going to college and then breaking up with her.”

“How old is she?”

“Seventeen.”

“And how do you know about her boyfriend?”   It is not, in Dr Burke’s experience, normal for daughters who dislike their father’s lover to confide their own romantic problems to that same lover.

Detective Beckett smiles.  Dr Burke observes a certain steely quality and is instantly and unpleasantly reminded of their previous session.  “She told me.”  Mmm.  The laconic statement tells Dr Burke more than he might have wanted to know.  This child had not had the slightest chance of concealing her motivations from Detective Beckett.  And yet, Dr Burke thinks, Detective Beckett is unaware why she might have become the object of disfavour.

“She told you that, but did not explain why that should cause her to dislike you?”

“She was crying.  She needed Castle a lot more than I needed information.”  That, Dr Burke notices, is a very strange way of phrasing the description of their discussion.  It is very much a description by a police officer.  How very odd.  “So he went in and I went home.”

“Do you think you need to understand her reasoning?”

“Only if it’s going to cause problems for Castle.  I don’t want him to be fighting with his family about me, but I can live with his daughter disliking me  - she’s got reason, I suppose – if she doesn’t upset him.”  Detective Beckett is remarkably cool about the situation.  Dr Burke is suddenly certain that this is another manifestation of Detective Beckett’s typical reaction to emotional hurt.  It seems likely that, however she may ignore or deny her own feelings by stating that all she wants is for Mr Castle and his daughter to be reconciled, Detective Beckett has been wounded by his daughter’s behaviour and attitude towards her.  However, there is plenty of time for that to be resolved.  Detective Beckett and Mr Castle have barely begun a relationship.  There is no point whatsoever in attempting to accelerate a discussion of this latest complication.  A single comment will suffice, for now.

“Have you considered that she may think you are replacing her in Mr Castle’s affections?”  Detective Beckett stares straight at him with an astounded expression.

“That’s crazy.  It’s impossible.”  Clearly she has not.  “Nothing could shift Castle off caring for Alexis.  She’s the most important thing in his life.  She can’t possibly think that.  It’s insane.”

“But Mr Castle was with you all summer, and your relationship has developed at the same time as his daughter’s appears to have failed.  It would not be surprising if she were jealous of you.”  Detective Beckett looks entirely unconvinced.

“Castle’s always there for Alexis.  I’d think a lot less of him if he wasn’t.  There’s nothing for her to be jealous of.”  Dr Burke notes with renewed interest that Detective Beckett seems wholly unworried by Mr Castle’s evidently close relationship with his daughter, which argues that, letters perhaps aside, she is wholly confident about the nature and strength of her own relationship with him.  Dr Burke recollects that Mr Castle is attending tomorrow, and wonders whether he will raise this topic also.  It does not appear that Detective Beckett will believe the truth.  This child Alexis is quite clearly jealous of her, spurred by the failure of an immature relationship.  For the first, and possibly the only, time while he has been treating Detective Beckett and Mr Castle, the genesis of a new issue has turned out to be relatively simple.  However, should Mr Castle suggest it, he will decline to treat his daughter and refer her to another psychiatrist.  He is entirely unable to cope with another element of this dysfunctional group.  He refuses even to contemplate the possibility.  He expects, in any event, that Detective Beckett will, at some point, need to discuss this matter further.  For now, she appears to be ignoring it.  This does not surprise Dr Burke at all.  Detective Beckett’s focus is on returning to work.  Mr Castle’s daughter is not relevant to that focus.  She will, however, soon become relevant to their relationship.

“Is there anything else you would like to discuss, Kate?”

“Not today.”  Dr Burke notes that she now looks fractionally uncertain, rather than the calm, poised woman she has been in this session. It is not evident in the tone of her next words.  “Can I still come to see you, after I get back to work?”

“Of course you may, as often as you feel it necessary.”


	67. Dirt on my conscience

Kate finds herself with some time to spare before she needs to be at Columbus Circle, and decides not to go home but to indulge herself with some good coffee, a bear claw and the paper.  That’s all relatively simple, but once she’s sitting in a café she finds that she can’t concentrate on the (depressing) news, and even the cartoons don’t have much bite.  She pushes the paper away in disgust, and lets the thoughts that have been pushing at the edges of her mind enter.  She’s fit to go back, and that gives her renewed confidence.  She’s ready.  It’ll be just like it used to be, only it’ll be better, because she’s worked things out with Castle.  But first she has to share those letters.  For an instant she wishes she’d burnt them; that way she wouldn’t have to do this.  She drains her coffee and leaves to meet Castle at Columbus.

They’re pleasantly perambulating around Strawberry Fields, coffee done and comfortably cuddled together, when Kate opens up the important matters of the day.

“I get re-evaluated on Thursday, and should requalify on Friday.  Dr Burke thinks it’s all good.”  Castle knows the timing.  He’s been counting the days, almost as carefully as he thinks Kate has.  He needs to tell her about his… little problem, about going back.  Somehow it’s never been the right time to tell her that he’s not allowed at the precinct any more, but in a moment, he’ll have the chance.

“That’ll be great.  Are you ready to go back now?”

“Yes,” she says decidedly.  “Ready as I’ll ever be, without facing down a gun for real.”  And she sounds as if she really, truly means it, force back in her voice, Detective Beckett in her step and her posture.  “It’s gonna be good.  We’ll be back in business.”  She smiles happily.

“Yes,” Castle says slowly.  “You’ll be back in business.”  Kate looks up at him, confused. 

“What do you mean, _you_?  _We’ll_ be back in business.”  There’s a very uncomfortable silence.  Even though he’d been planning to discuss it with her today, now he’s landed right in it and he suddenly hasn’t the faintest idea what to say. 

“Kate, I didn’t know how to… I was going to tell you today…” And as the silence stretches out while he tries to find words all the happiness is draining from her face.  For a moment she says nothing, wide-eyed and horrified, and then her face locks down into perfect, icy, stillness.

“You’re not coming back, are you?”  She’s pulled out his arm.  “You lied to me.  You’re leaving the precinct.  _Why didn’t you tell me before?_ ”  She’s absolutely devastated, but she won’t show it.  She’d thought, over the last three weeks, that it would all be back to normal.  But it won’t be.  She can’t believe it, and it’s all the worse for being so completely unexpected.  She thought he’d agreed to tell her the truth.  “You said you wouldn’t lie to me.  Have you taken what you needed to finish Nikki, then, so it’s all done?  She’s all better, she’s all fixed, a fine place to end the final book?  I can’t deal with you now.  I’m going home.  I need to think.” 

She spins on her heel and is five steps away and accelerating towards the Park exit before he can work out what she’s said, what’s happening.  She needs to get home.  Needs to prepare for Thursday.  Needs not to fall apart in Central Park.  She can hear Castle calling after her but she doesn’t stop.  All her nascent hopes, shattered again.  At least this time she’s not actually dying.  It just hurts nearly as much.  He’s strung her along, letting her believe he’ll be there to catch her if she falls, letting her believe that he’d be standing with her.  But he won’t be, and he knew it.  She can’t understand how she’d misread everything so badly: how he could lie to her so well, how she’d so misunderstood where he was standing.  She’d handed him her heart, and he’s thrown it in the trash.   All her thinking, all her honesty, and he didn’t tell her the truth.  She’s so distressed that she doesn’t even realise that she’s immediately reverted to her original patterns of behaviour: simply running away from unbearable pain, without trying to determine if her instinctive thoughts are correct.

Castle’s looking at Kate’s retreating back with horror.  Here he is again, watching her leave, run, isolate herself, deal with her hurts alone.  _No_.  It’s not going to be this way.  He won’t let it be this way.  If his sessions with Dr Burke, and the last four weeks, have taught him one thing, it’s not to let Kate do this.  Not to let her block him out.  He can’t change her reactions, but he has changed his.  And he’d promised her that he would come after her, if she ran.  It’s so clear what she thinks, because he couldn’t find the words fast enough.  She thinks he lied; she thinks he’s played her; her very first thought was that he’d only done it for the books;  by the time she gets home she’ll believe that he lied about everything, and if he doesn’t beat her there, she won’t even open the door to him. 

Five fast strides towards the exit, he rejects the idea of following her through the subway.  He’ll be at least one train behind.   He picks up a cab which he hopes will get him to her apartment before she reaches it, and then he’ll have a chance to explain.  Which he should have done much, much earlier.  Another decision he failed to make.  Another way he’s screwed up his life.

* * *

 

Kate boards the first train that comes, not caring where it’s going, and clamps down on her overwhelming emotions.  She is _not_ going to disgrace herself by weeping on the subway.  That can wait till she’s home.  Her thoughts circle uselessly, frantically, around her head.  How could he have lied so consistently, deceived her so thoroughly, and yet never given so much as a hint that he didn’t mean it?  Everything he’d done, everything he’d said, had all pointed in one direction, and yet he won’t be there when she most needs him to be: he won’t be coming back to the precinct.  And he knew it.  She pulls on complete control, sets her jaw and goes home.  No point in sharing her letters now.  At least there’s that.  It’s no consolation at all.

The last person she expects to see at her door is Castle, leaning on the doorframe, tense, serious and strained.

“I’m not leaving you,” he states, before Kate can say a word.  “I haven’t lied to you.”  She opens her mouth and there’s only one way he can even try to stop the looming disaster.  He’s kissing her before she knows it, frantic to prevent her saying anything.  If she starts speaking, it’ll all fall apart in an instant.  She wrenches her face away from him, hard.

 “I” - he runs right over her when she looks like she’s about to talk – “couldn’t find a way to tell you, that wouldn’t damage everything you were doing.”

“Why should I believe you, Castle?”  She sounds bitter, hopeless, defeated: unreactive in his arms, not even attempting to move.  He holds her in more tightly, kisses her once more: hoping to be utterly convincing, trying to show her the truth by his embrace, to show her that she has to believe him.  But then he shifts a little away, lets her open the door, pushes through before she can consider shutting it in his face, pulls her close again.

“No.  I’m not letting you run away again.  You have to listen to me.  I’m not leaving.  I’m not ever leaving you.  Never.  It’s nothing to do with Nikki, I haven’t even got partway through.  I’m not allowed at the precinct.  The new Captain threw me out, before you were even out of ICU.  So you’ll be back, but I won’t be, because I didn’t do anything about going back.  I didn’t want to tell you, didn’t want to upset you, and then I blocked it off.  I was going to tell you today but you got there first.”

Oh.  That’s dreadful.  That’s really dreadful.  She pulls away, goes and thumps down into the couch cushions, completely overwhelmed by misery.  Her world has fractured around her, everything she thought she knew reflected and distorted in the broken mirror of her hopes.  She hadn’t realised till he said that how much she’d unconsciously been depending on him being there, right where he should be.  Now she’ll have to do it alone.  The boys are good, but it’s not the same.  He knew he wouldn’t be there, and had left it till now, right when she’d been thinking that everything would be back to normal, everything would be good, to tell her. 

While she’s been thinking, Castle has come to sit next to her, trying to cuddle her close, though she’s hardly responsive, trying to make her feel better, bitterly guilty that he’s precipitated this, and knowing that he’s wholly lucky that she hasn’t just thrown him out or killed him.   He’s avoided total disaster by a hair’s-breadth, and he’s still not in any way sure that he can retrieve this.  Kate’s not exactly showing him that she’s convinced by his explanation.  Hardly surprising, really.  He’s ducked this issue since the day she came back to him; forcibly forgotten it in the lush bloom of their relationship; managed to ignore that because she needs him to support her, as she’s made clear in so many spoken and unspoken ways, her finding that he can’t – never mind thinking that he won’t, which is still entirely too likely for his comfort – is going to knock the props from under her.  Because he didn’t want to think about the hard choices, the difficult conversations.  And now he’s yanked out all the supports and the building’s fallen down.

“Kate, I didn’t lie to you.  About anything.”  There’s desperation lacing through his words.  She has to believe him.  He has to convince her.  He can’t bear it if she withdraws from him again.  Especially as it’s all his own fault.

“You just – what?  Forgot?  Thought I might not notice?”  She hasn’t used that bitter tone to him in weeks.  Tension has stiffened her shoulders; keeps her a critical inch of separation from his side.  His arm around her doesn’t seem to be helping in the slightest.

“Didn’t want to think about it,” he says miserably.  “I didn’t want to think that I wouldn’t be there with you.”

“You should have told me.”  She pulls further away, stands up, goes to the kitchen and puts the kettle on: simply a distraction, an avoidance technique, a way to step away.  There’s nothing at all in her posture and demeanour to indicate that he’s in any way believed.  Nothing to show whether he will be. 

He gathers up all his courage, comes to stand beside her by the counter.  “Do you want me to stay, or go?”  And waits, terrified, for the answer, while chill silence stretches thinly between them.

“Does it matter what I want?”  He’s not, not one whit, forgiven.  But it’s not – quite – _go_ , though she’s back to cold indifference covering a gaping wound of hurt.  He quails to see her shutting down, shutting out.  Shutting him out.  Back to the old pattern.  She’s hurt, so she ran away.  She’s hurt – he hurt her: _be honest, Rick, you caused this_ \- so she’s hiding herself, her pain,  from him.  But he’s not going to back away, back off.

“Kate, _please_.  I’m sorry.  Don’t shut me out.  Talk to me.”  _Yell, or scream, or slap me, or anything except this awful silence._   He puts his arms around her again, turns her to face him.  She’s close to tears, he thinks, and struggling not to show it.   “Please.  Let me in.  You asked me to come after you if you ran.  Here I am.  I’m not leaving you.  I’ll be there.  Somehow.”  He brings her into him, holds her close, gently stops her from pulling away, cradles her head into his shoulder, whispers, “Somehow I’ll get back to following you.  I won’t let you fall.”  He just doesn’t have any idea how to do it. 

Kate can hear the desolation, the terror and the need in Castle’s voice, followed by absolute sincerity.  Gradually, she appreciates that she hadn’t misunderstood him, these last weeks.  _He came after me.  He wouldn’t have come after me if he’d been lying.  He wouldn’t have needed to.  Look at his actions, not his words._  

Time stretches out, until finally she leans in, relaxes against him.

“Shh, Castle.  It’s okay.  We’ll make it work.”  But she’s still unhappy, not sure how anything can make this work.  She’d been relying on him being there.  Though, as she recovers from the initial shock, focuses on the more limited issue, rather than believing that absolutely everything has collapsed, she starts to think.  He’s not allowed in the precinct.  That doesn’t necessarily mean that he can’t come to a crime scene, though getting him through the tape might be … interesting.  Or impossible.  And she can always talk to him later.  It won’t be the same, though.  It won’t be the immediate exchange of ideas; the fast snap of give-and-take theory, their minds in sync.  He just … won’t be there.  And if it all goes wrong…  There has to be a better way to do this.  She – they – just have to find it.

The kettle’s boiled, while she’s been thinking.  Castle hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken.  She can feel a very slight tremble where she’s tucked into his chest.  He’s holding on as if he’ll never let go. 

“Coffee, Castle?” she says softly.  There’s some small loosening of his arms, not sufficient to allow her to turn to the kettle.  Finally, she feels him nod, drop his hands, let her turn to the kettle and coffeepot.  But he doesn’t let go entirely, keeps a palm on her waist.  She doesn’t know if he’s trying to reassure her, or him.  Still, coffee will calm both of them, bring them back to normal.  She puts her own hand briefly, comfortingly, over his, then collects everything to return to the couch.

Castle follows, sits down close to Kate, still shaken by the crisis he’d precipitated, still only half-sure that it’s better.  Well.  It isn’t better.  _They’re_ better, but they haven’t solved the real problem: how can he be there for her if it goes wrong?  He sips his coffee, and fails to find an answer in the caffeine rush. 

 “Castle,” Kate says, after a period of silence and intense thinking.  “Castle, the Mayor and Commissioner haven’t changed, have they?”

“No, but what’s that got to do with anything?”  He doesn’t see how the city’s current political situation has any relevance.

“Everything,” she says with some considerable satisfaction.  “How did you get into the Twelfth in the first place?” 

“I – oh!  Kath-er-ine Beckett!  Are you – _you!_ – suggesting I should use my connections to force my way into an NYPD precinct to follow a hot female Detective around?”  He starts to laugh, as much in relief as humour.  Kate grins, too. 

“Yeah.  You never know, you might get lucky.”  She leans comfortably into him.  “Think it’ll work?” 

“I’ll call Bob today.”

Coffee done, peace restored, Kate remembers the envelope.  She’d like to ignore it, especially as the adrenaline from earlier is still circulating.  But she’d decided, last night, to hand them over, and she won’t flunk this test.  Not after they’d both flunked this morning’s.  He failed to be honest.  She ran away.  It’s the best way, the only way, to show her belief in him.

So when Castle reluctantly gets up to leave, not without attempted demonstrations of why he should stay, she rises too, plucks the envelope from the desk, almost shoves Castle out the door, pushes the envelope into his hands, gabbles _these-are-the-letters-I-want-you-to-read-them-but-not-here_ , and shuts the door firmly on his astonished face before she can think better of it and wrench them all back.  Then she switches her phone off.

When, from her window, she’s seen Castle leave the building, she breathes a sigh, mostly of relief, partly of sheer terror.  What’s done is done: he’ll never be able to resist reading them; she can rely on his insatiable curiosity for that.  She changes and goes out to run for as long and as far as she thinks she can stand.  She wants to be out of contact for the next while.  A long while.  When she gets back, she thinks, she’ll text Esposito to see if she can get to the range today, and if not today, certainly  tomorrow.  Four days, before she has to requalify.  Assuming she passes medical and psych.  Before she really hits her stride, she counts up.  She should be able to spar again next week.  One more week.  She wishes she could do so right now, because thumping hell out a punchbag would stop her thinking about anything, everything, else.

* * *

 

Castle is left looking at the shut door and then the small, armed, nuclear bomb in the shape of a white envelope in his hand.  His first inclination is to rip it open and start reading there and then.   He swiftly discounts that.  He should do this at home.  _After_ he’s called Bob, because once he starts reading he knows he won’t stop till he’s finished.  Nothing, though, _nothing_ , in these letters will change his feelings, will change the need to be there to catch Kate.  If Gates is as much of an iron-ass as the boys make out, Bob will need all the time that Castle can give him.  So, Bob first.  He hails a cab – he won’t take the slightest risk of losing these on the subway or the street – and swipes on his phone.

“Bob, hey.  It’s Rick.”  And he explains.  Bob is very sympathetic.  Bob is sure the Commissioner and 1PP will be very supportive.  Bob is certain that Rick will be able to go back the first day Detective Beckett returns to work.  No problem, Rick.  No problem at all.  And he’d loved, absolutely loved, _Heat Rises_.  Looking forward to the next one.  Soon.

So that’s done.  He’s just time to text Kate, before he’s home and he can open this envelope, to tell her he’s started the process of getting back to the precinct, adrenaline sending his fingers shaking on the screen and forcing him to retype every other word as he thinks about the letters.  He shuts himself in his study, throws his coat carelessly in the direction of a chair, and controls himself sufficiently to peel the envelope open slowly, so as not to risk tearing the contents.


	68. She wrote me a letter

There are more pages than he’d expected.  It’s the first thing he notices.  Each sheet, some double sided, covered in Kate’s neat black handwriting.  He riffles through, not focusing on the words, making sure they’re in order.  He needs to read them in order.  Seems so.  He puts the bundle down and starts at the beginning.  _Once upon a time, not very long ago, in another time and place_ …

He doesn’t even make it to the second letter before he has to look away, breathe, remind himself that she didn’t die, she isn’t in pain from the wounds now, she’s not – mostly - having flashbacks of the bullet and dying.  The stark reality of how she suffered physically drums through every word.  She hadn’t seemed to be bearing so much agony, in the hospital, that she couldn’t even write half a page.  But then, in the hospital the pain relief went straight into her veins at the press of a button. 

And now, here, right at the very beginning, is the problem, laid out in harsh syllables.  _I couldn’t hurt you all like that any more, so I left._   She left, so as not to hurt them, to protect them, just like she’d said, that night almost a fortnight ago.  He turns the page over, takes up the next.

By the fourth letter the pain in his chest is so intense he can barely read. 

He’s right inside her head with her, feeling the frustration and the pain of forcing herself to movement; the coruscating agony of the flashbacks and the scraping in her throat from the screaming; the desolation as she refuses to call, or write, or text in case she hurts him more, in case she hurts herself more, denying herself any chance to love him, because she’s sure he won’t love her back once he knows she’s so bitter, so damaged.  She’d been so _wrong_. 

She loves him.  All this time, she loved him, and didn’t say; couldn’t tell him.  She still hasn’t said the words, but then, she gave him these, and he can’t believe she doesn’t know what she’s doing, what she’s revealing, when she’s done it.  All or nothing, with his Kate.  There’s no way back from this, and she must know that.  He’s never going to let her stand alone, after this.  But still.  Read it and weep.

He stops again, stands, walks away from the desk, trying to escape from the storm of her emotions.  If only, if only, he had known.  Known about the physical hurts, known about the insecurity, known how she felt.  These letters have peeled her skin off, and she’s written out her pain in her own blood on the paper.  She might not be a writer, but these letters are unforgettable, slashed cuts scarring across the paper, across his eyes.  If any one of these had accidentally reached him, he’d have been with her as fast as he could get there, flashbacks or no.  _I’d have come, to stand with you._   And she’d known that he would have come, and she hadn’t asked, hadn’t called, hadn’t written, because she wouldn’t ask for anything.

That bites hard, even now, and it’s not soothed by her admission that she loves him.  She might have loved him, but she didn’t trust him to feel the same, and after this morning, it seems fairly clear that she’s still too easily convinced that he doesn’t.  That bites, too.  He doesn’t know what more he can do, except keep on showing up, keep on never backing down.  _Or you could try not hiding things from her, Rick.  That’s what did it._   He has to keep on.  No-one’s ever been there for her, consistently, in her whole adult life.  Until now, until he has been, until he will be.

He expects that she was crying when she wrote the next: the ink has run, in places.  He’d thought, on and off through those three months, confirmed by Jim Beckett, that she hadn’t felt enough for him to care; hadn’t cared enough to call.  _How wrong could I have been?_   This doesn’t just explain her words, at the cafe on Clinton, in her apartment: this tells him so much more.  All her twisted thinking, distorted by her history and then again in solitude, laid out in black and white.  Though she’d understood how her actions would make him feel – understood, and done it anyway.  He has to remind himself that they’ve made everything right: that she’d explained, that they’re good.  She’d known how much these letters would hurt, and she’d waited, till… till she thought they were strong enough, together, to stand this strain without breaking, to show him all the truth? 

He’s come to the end of the letters from the cabin, recognises the next: the one that he’d read that dreadful day when he’d pushed her away with bitter words and rage, then realised through sheer accident that he’d been right, and all her friends had been wrong: watching her cower in flashback when a truck backfired, when a door slammed; the day that everything changed again.  The passage of time has not made reading it any easier, hasn’t made her thinking then any less painful.   Nor is it less painful for the light shed on it by her previous letters.  She’d meant _get over being in love_.  She’d thought – he’d known this, but it hits far harder when he sees it written down – down deep to her bones, that all he wanted was Nikki.  She’s still, on today’s evidence, capable of being terrifyingly insecure on that point.  And so she’d pushed away, locked down, all the feelings she had: never given herself the chance to find out if it were true, until Dr Burke had forced each of them to confront themselves: until he, Castle, had forced the issues after that.

And again, the next letter is one he recognises, at least the front page.  Overleaf, though… if he’d seen that, at the time… Well.  He’d read as far as _when I miss you too much, I’ll read your books_ , but then he hadn’t dared turn it over for fear of being caught.  The next few lines… well, again.  He’d have waited, supported her.  What would another few weeks, or even months, have been, when he’d waited for three years, if she was moving forward?  And yet she hadn’t _seen_ him, seen the truth of how he felt.  Feels, though maybe she knows it, now.  Heard him, then, and not believed it.  Maybe she believes it, now.

He reads on, immeasurably relieved, now, that he hadn’t read any of these when he’d first wanted to.  It would have been disastrous.  Even now, he wants to shout and yell _That isn’t me, that wasn’t how I felt: how could you not see me, see the truth?_ Despite the progress, despite being together, despite where they’ve reached; he still wants to argue with each misconception, prove her wrong.  He’s so angry, that she misread him so badly, that he thinks that if she walked through his study door now, he’d not be able to control his words or his body; he’d shake sense into her – then prove to her in the most primitive and physical ways that she was wholly in error.  It takes a while for him to calm himself, to draw the sting of her words and actions, before he can continue.

He finishes the three letters following their first, tentative steps as _friends_.  Reading these letters, it’s clear that being _friends_ had been the right solution.  Anything more would have pushed her too far, too fast, been built on sand; and then collapsed at the first quarrel.  She’d never have coped with the strength of his feelings, then.  She couldn’t cope even with what she thought he felt, the overspill from Nikki Heat, in her mind.  It’s very obvious that then her confidence in him was hopelessly fragile; only too likely to take any uncertainty as proof that she was wrong.  He knows why: he’s heard the whole story; knows how difficult it was – maybe still is – for her to believe that it’s not about Nikki, not about the books. 

When he’s finished the first pass,  he leans back, drained simply from reading these open wounds.  He’s amazed that she handed the letters over, stripping her naked as they do.  He’s more amazed she ever came back from the cabin upstate.  She may be fragile about _them_ , though he hopes that that will subside as the days go by, (at least if he doesn’t screw up again) but otherwise she must be tungsten-tough.

He goes to make himself coffee and some lunch, glad there’s no-one else in the loft.  He can’t face casual conversation, still less the more serious discussion still to be completed with Alexis.  Nevertheless he carefully ensures the study door is shut behind him.  Nobody, but nobody, else is ever going to see those letters.  Back at his desk, he unlocks the drawer and slides out the manila envelope of his own letters, flicks through till he finds the one that he wrote the day she sent him away from the hospital.  That’s about the point she started her letters.  And then he reads them against each other, side by side, matching up the timeline as if it were on Beckett’s murder board.  Reading the conversations that they didn’t ever have: the misunderstandings, the denial, the inability to tell each other the truth: how badly they’d each failed to see what the other felt.  He’s gut-shot by the depth of her feelings, how much and how long she’d been hiding from him, and from herself: how much she’d needed him, and he hadn’t been there.  He’s never going to let that happen again.  He sees, again, through the prism of her words, why not backing off had worked.

He re-reads, several times, the paired letters of their separate thoughts in that evening when, fuelled by rage at Gina and cheap wine, he’d triggered every one of her separate insecurities with a few short sentences: aim point-perfect.  He hadn’t realised just how close he’d come to losing her right then: even the sign-off of her letter shows him that she was pulling away, stepping back, deciding that, if he wouldn’t be there, she’d not push: backing away from _love Kate_ to simply _Kate_.  She’d never asked him for anything; never relied on him for anything; never relied on anyone for anything.  Till now.  Till these last few days.  This time, she’d not pulled away, she’d – eventually – leaned in.  He hadn’t let her run, he’d followed, and in return, she had leaned in, and listened for the truth.

He’ll need to hand over his.  If Kate can rip her heart out and hand it over, then how can he not?   He knows what he has to do: he has to get his letters to Kate, give her time to read them, before he sees her.  And he has to see her, today, show her that all this truth has only brought him closer, not driven him away. 

He puts both sets of letters away in their separate envelopes, snags his jacket off the chair and vacates the loft at speed, not wanting to think too hard about what he’s doing in case he can’t go through with it.  But this is a hard choice that he has to make – hand his own heart over and hope that Kate sees his letters in the same way he has read hers.  He’s terrified.

When he reaches Kate’s apartment he goes straight up, giving security a passing, casual wave, raps on her door.  When there’s no sound from inside, and he finds that no matter how he tries there is no way that either envelope will slide under the door, he leaves them in the mailbox and taps out a text to tell her what he’s done, asking her to let him know that she’s received them.

And all the time, under the terror, his heart beats to a new rhythm.  _She loves me.  She loves me.  She loves me._

* * *

 

Kate had run as far as she could manage, stopped when she couldn’t run further, as far away from her apartment as possible.  Running, though, has not left her too tired to think, though while she was in motion she couldn’t concentrate on anything other than the flow of muscle and avoiding others.  She’s done all the warm-down that she needs to do, and far more, trying to avoid this point.  But here she is, sitting on a bench sipping water, and there is nothing to stop the thoughts which are squirming sidelong into her mind.Top of the list is _Oh God what have I done?_   Not far behind it are a whole book’s worth of insecurities about what Castle will think of her when he reads her cowardly, petty, selfish thinking.  And wriggling poisonously to the top of that pile is _what if he decides he can’t deal with the truth of how damaged I was? How damaged I am?_   And when she squashes down that thought, mostly, by remembering that he’s already heard it all, more than once, and still reached out to catch her; then a new viper slithers into her head and hisses _Now he’ll see what you thought of him.  How you didn’t trust him.  Now you’ll really have hurt him, all over again. Do you really think that giving him these letters will make him feel better?  Do you really think it’ll fix things?_ For a long while, she just sits, breathing in and breathing out, alone with her corrosive thoughts. 

Eventually, she can’t justify sitting there any longer, picks up an energy bar in a nearby store, all the food her twisting, roiling stomach can stand, eats it while flipping her phone on to text Esposito to arrange a visit to the precinct range, early this evening.  He’s quick to agree, to make it seven so that he’s off-shift.  One matter down.  She doesn’t listen to her voicemail, doesn’t look at the unopened messages that are there.  She switches her phone back off, too scared to leave it on. 

She starts to run again, turning for home; terrified of what she’ll find there.  She’ll go home and give herself a safe place to be, then she’ll listen and read her messages.  Not now.  The viper pit in her mind is too much to cope with.  She needs to get home, soon.  Further stress will not improve her running.  Stress, even now, of the degree that’s beginning to build will not help her at all.  This might just have been a little over-ambitious, at this stage of her recovery.  But.  But it had to be done, sometime, and she’d rather hit it head-on now, than find in a week or a month or a year that it became a breaking point.  She forces the thoughts down, concentrates fiercely on planting her feet securely, an even rhythm, the beat of her heart and the flow of her breath.  Just for this time, just while she’s running, she need not think about anything except the physical.

When she reaches the entryway of her apartment, she automatically checks her mailbox.  Her stomach clenches when she sees not just her own envelope, but a similar sized brown one.  No notes, no explanation, no commentary, nothing, just two envelopes.  This doesn’t feel good.  But then, she thinks, applying a modicum of intelligence through the fear, if it was wholly bad then he’d never have left his own letters.  _Unless,_ says the viper of her insecurity, _unless he wants you to be hurt too, because you’ve hurt him so much._   She reluctantly picks up both envelopes – there is no other mail to distract her, not even adverts – and slowly returns to her apartment. 

She postpones the inevitable as long as she can by making herself a belated lunch that she doesn’t really want, eating around a third of it as slowly as she can, before finally dumping the remains in the trash, and washing up, drying, putting away, very precisely.  Then she goes for a shower – can’t read letters in a shower, not like in a bath – again, wasting time; delaying, diverting, avoiding.  All the time her gut is twisting.

Finally, she can’t find any more excuses not to face the truth.  She sits down at her desk, and opens the brown envelope.

* * *

 

His phone chirps, mid-afternoon, and he immediately grabs for it, hoping that it’s Kate.  He’s now left three texts, and called four times, and all he’s had is silence and calls going straight to voicemail.  He’s perfectly sure she’s hiding from him.  Though she’d call it giving herself privacy.  He hopes it’s only while she’s reading the letters.  He hopes she _is_ reading the letters. 

It’s not Kate.  It’s Esposito.  He tries to hide the sharp slice of disappointment.  The longer she doesn’t reply, the more worried he becomes.

“Yo, Castle.  Thought you’d like to know that Beckett’s hitting the range around seven.  Just in case you didn’t have anything to do this evening.”

“Thanks, Espo.”  He takes a quick breath.  “How’d she sound?”  There’s a surprised silence.

“Just like usual, bit tired – she’d been out running, went a bit too far, she said.”  Ah.  No doubt she did go running.  Little doubt she went too far.  Not a hope in hell that she wasn’t covering up something else.  Such as her feelings about giving him the letters, previously on his desk, now, he hopes, on hers.  Surely she can’t have missed them?

“Okay.  See you later – I’ll meet you all in the Old Haunt at eight thirty, yeah?  Try and make sure Beckett comes, okay?”  He cuts the call before Esposito can do anything more than agree.  Especially, before Esposito can start asking any difficult questions.  Like _What’s goin’ on, bro? Why d’ya need me to get Beckett there?_ This isn’t something he wants Espo or Ryan or Lanie or his family to investigate.  No way.

He dials Kate’s number again, and yet again it goes straight to voicemail.  She hasn’t even told him that she’s got the letters.  He doesn’t know if she hasn’t got home, or hasn’t checked her mail, or hasn’t checked her phone, or any combination of the above.  All of which are better than the alternative, which is that she has got the letters, has read them, and doesn’t want to see him.  Now, or later, or ever.  He can’t go over.  Not yet.  He has to give her time to read, mark and inwardly digest his letters.  He won’t back off, and he won’t back down – but he has to give her time.  He’d been given time.  More of it than he wants.


	69. Gone is my innocence

She’s still sitting at her desk, motionless, trying to collect her courage to start to read, several minutes after she’d opened the envelope.  A brief flick through has told her that the letters are in chronological order, a time line.  She has to begin, but she doesn’t want to begin.  She doesn’t know if she can bear this pain.

She stops staring at the wall.

The first letters are almost bearable.  Almost.  The depth of his concern, the feelings blazing through, the solid rock of his love, which is the foundation of every word he’s written.  His pain and guilt and shame that he hadn’t saved her – how could he, no-one outsprints a bullet.  How much he’d disliked – hated – Josh, until Josh saved her life.   The small digressions, the quick humour, so very _him_.  How much he’d hoped that she’d come to him, how much courage he’d been ready to show.  And over and over and over again, not just desire, but love.  So much love.  Oh God.  So much love, and she’d not _seen_ it.  She’d not wanted to see it.  She remembers how she’d hardly been able to bear looking at the flowers he’d brought, how she’d wished he hadn’t, and guilt punches into her diaphragm.  She can’t breathe.  She sees how much he’d wanted to help, how upset he’d been that he’d tripped her insecurities about Nikki, about the scars.  She understands, now, how much he’d meant when he said he didn’t care about the scars.  How much he’d meant when he’d kissed them.  So much love.

She knows before she’s even turned the page what she’ll find next.  Because after that, she’d sent him away.  And now she’s seen these first letters, full of hope and happiness and love – how much worse it must have been even than she’d thought.  She’d known that it hurt him when she did it, known from Lanie and his own words that it had bitten harder than she’d thought, but that was before she’d understood from these letters where he was standing.  Her throat is tight, unwelcome tears scraping at the back of her eyes.  She turns the page, looks down at the familiar writing.

It’s not just worse.  It tears her apart.  She couldn’t have been more cruel if she had done it deliberately.  His pain howls from the page, his devastation, his belief that she’d done it because he couldn’t be good enough for her – but in truth she’d thought him too good - and finally resignation.  She’d caused this, and how can he have forgiven her?  She’d caused him this pain, and then she hadn’t called.  For three months she hadn’t called, and for all that time he must have felt like this.  Tears spill down her face.  She wipes them away.  She doesn’t have the right to cry for his grief.  She caused it.

She almost gives up right there.  She can deduce the next chapter of this story, and the next.  After all, she precipitated them.  All of them.  Although she wouldn’t call her effect on him inspiration.  Nor describe herself as a muse.  Both those terms imply a happy relationship, not this slicing, flailing agony.  She’d left him standing with his heart in his hands, offering her everything he was, is and could be, and then run away without a single word of explanation.  But he’s had the guts to give her these letters, so the least she can do is read them.  Maybe if she feels the same pain he did she’ll find absolution.  Not that she deserves it.

She’s appalled and ashamed by how clearly he’d seen her, how ready he’d been to explain away her behaviour, to trust that she had good reason.  He’d been so angry in this letter, and then he’d evidently paused to think, and suddenly he’d understood her, better than her oldest friend had.  Not for him the confusion or distortion of her ideas, thinking she knew what was going on, anticipating an outcome and running away from it, hopelessly wrong, just like this morning.  If she’d known, or let herself believe, how deeply he felt, would she have called?  Or would she just have made the same mistakes?  Probably, she thinks bitterly.  Definitely.  Her history would have defeated her.

His final letter, before she came back to the city, breaks her.  She can’t read any more, even if she’d wanted to try; stumbles sobbing to her bedroom and weeps herself into oblivion, incapable of stopping.  His letter breaks her, just like she’d broken him.  No wonder he’d been so furious, when she came back.  She can’t see how he ever got past his pain and rage to come to her door, flashback or not.  And yet, somehow, he had.  How can she be enough for him: how can’t he be repelled by the petty, selfish behaviour and feelings she’d displayed, now he’s read them, as well as heard them?  She’s not the woman he thinks she is, can’t even mount the base of that pedestal.  He thinks she’s courageous, admirable.  Truth is, she’s flawed: petty and selfish and cowardly; pathetically insecure and damaged.  She can’t be enough for the man he is.  She might manage to be a detective again, but she’s not emotionally ready to be everything – or maybe even anything? – he needs.  She can’t even face talking to his family.  She’ll never be able to live up to the standards his forgiveness demands of her.  She buries her face in her pillows, and lets time pass. 

She might as well read the rest, now.  They can’t get any worse.  Can’t make her feel any worse.  Except, when she’s sat back down, the very next one does.  He blames himself for not listening, when she’d been the one who blocked  him off.  He thinks he has to change, to be more, for her to love him.  He’d wept over the paper, she thinks.  So much love, and no matter how much she feels in return, it only grieves her.  He’s so sure he has to make himself more, better, for her to love him.  He’s so sure she’s worthy of his unlimited, unquestioning, unfailing love.  If only she were.  If only she were worth it, in the way that she knows he’s worth – more than worth - hers.  Who else would, could, have stepped back and waited as he had?  Has.  And though she’s given him everything she’s capable of giving, it hardly seems sufficient, in the light of how much he wants to give her.  Over and over, the same theme.   _Kate, I love you.  Let me in, let me stand with you.  I love you._

She’s read them all, and now she knows where he’s come from, what he’s borne, where he stands.  Despite all his words, all his deeds, all of them wholly consistent with these letters, the depth of his love, she’s staring down into another abyss.  Love isn’t always enough, no matter how much of it she gives.  She’s not sure in any way at all that her love will be enough to match up to him.   She feels, still, again, so very, very broken.  Knowing the whole story is no help at all.  It hasn’t fixed anything, just ripped her soul apart.

She shouldn’t have done this.  She’s broken on it.

* * *

 

A long, unthinking, time later she remembers that she’s due to meet Esposito at the range.  She doesn’t want to go, doesn’t want to see anyone.  She wants to sleep, but sleep won’t cure her problems, won’t get her back to the precinct.  Besides which, if she sleeps, she’ll likely dream.  She knows what dreams may come, if she sleeps now.  She flips her phone on, reads the three texts Castle’s sent her, answers only one, telling him merely _I have the letters_ , listens to his increasingly emotional messages pleading for her to respond and can’t bear to speak to him.  Suddenly she doesn’t know how to do this any more.  She puts Castle’s letters back into their envelope and her own away, trying to shut her desolation away in the drawer with the letters.

She changes to a high-necked top suitable for shooting in, puts on enough make-up to deceive Esposito – that’s not generally hard, and he won’t ask any questions - and locks down everything except what she has to do to re-qualify.  She’s got that.  This is simply practice, just like she did every week before the summer, just like she’ll do every week when she’s back on the job.  She carefully doesn’t think about the bet.  Shortly she’s on her way, focusing ruthlessly on shooting and absolutely nothing else.  Esposito’s waiting for her at the range, enough ammunition that even in her mood she can’t possibly use it all.

She just keeps firing, metronomically spaced, accurate to within a reasonable tolerance of how she used to be.  The magazines diminish, the targets pass before her.  She doesn’t think, just keeps firing.  While she’s shooting she doesn’t have to think.  It’s better that she doesn’t.

Esposito comes to check on her after he’s finished, no doubt having spent the time amusing himself by putting single shots precisely through the target in pinpoint geometric patterns wherever he chooses.

“Yo, Beckett.  ‘S after eight.  Time to pack it in.”  She doesn’t want to.  She just wants to stay here and not think, hiding from herself in the report and recoil of the gun.  Strange, how it’s suddenly a crutch, when only a few days ago it was the problem.  She’s got a bigger problem now.

“C’mon.  Let’s go get a beer.  You look as if you could use a drink.  Ryan’s at the Old Haunt.  Maybe Lanie’ll show up.  Castle’s there, too.”

“I’m not coming, Espo.  I’m tired and I want to go home.  I’ll see you all another day.”  She’s gone before Esposito can argue.  He thinks she’s a little off her game, though the shooting seems to have gone okay.  And why wasn’t Castle here, rather than waiting for them while hanging around the bar?   He doesn’t believe that Writer-Boy would’ve missed showing up without a good reason.  And Castle asked him to get Beckett there.  Esposito scents a mystery.  Maybe he’ll find an answer at the bar.  He can always interrogate Castle.

He never gets the chance.  Castle takes one disbelieving look at him walking in alone, snaps _Why the fuck isn’t Beckett here_?  _You were supposed to bring her with you_ in tones that would have frozen hell itself, and departs at speed, leaving Esposito and Ryan looking at each other in confusion.

“What’s goin’ on, Ryan?”

“Dunno.  Castle’s been uptight since he got here and he’s been checking his phone every ten seconds.  Wasn’t even talking.  Hoped you’d know why.  Why’s Beckett not here?”

“Dunno.  She was off, too.  Shot well, but she looked as if something was wrong, an’ flat out refused to come.”  They look at each other in worried realisation.

“Guess where Castle’s gone.”

“No guess.  He’s gone to find Beckett.  They were good yesterday.”  Espo makes a disgusted face, caused equally by yesterday’s sappiness and today’s evident fuck-up.  “Surely they can’t have screwed this up already?”

Ryan casts Esposito an unhappy glance.  “I asked him if he’d told Beckett he wasn’t allowed in the precinct.  He said he had, and he was working on getting back.  Can’t be that.   Unless Gates has already nixed it.”  Esposito shakes his head.

“Against Castle’s connections?  She won’t have a hope in hell.  Wonder what took him so long to work that out?  So what’s goin’ on this time?”  There’s a short pause, while Esposito develops a dark scowl.  “Are we goin’ to have to put up with this all the time if they’re both back?  Jeez.  Can’t decide if that’s better or worse than sappiness.”

Neither of them can work out the answer to that, and eventually random speculation is drowned out by the call of another beer.

* * *

 

Castle is almost running out the door.  He hasn’t heard from Kate, except the briefest possible text confirming receipt of his letters, since she shoved him out the door with the envelope containing her letters pushed into his hand.  He thinks he knows what’s wrong.  He thinks she’s read his letters and can’t bear to face him.  He’s pushed her too far, too fast, and she’s not been ready to see how he felt.  Used to feel.  It’s different now: he’s not bitterly hurt, or angry, or frustrated by her silences: he knows she’s by no means perfect, but then neither is he.  Or worse, she’s not ready to accept or deal with how much he feels now.  He has to see her.  If it’s all about to fall apart now, he has to hear it from her own mouth, in person.  The previous rhythm of his heartbeat is stuttering to a halt.

He hails a cab and gives the address.  Halfway there, he suddenly stops his rush, the need to act, to see her, to convince her it’s all okay, and thinks about what he’s doing.  If he arrives desperately banging on her door, right now chances are she won’t even open it, still less let him in.  He doesn’t have a key, and somehow he thinks that borrowing Lanie’s and letting himself in, however attractive that idea is, will not find favour – there’s a seriously understated euphemism – in Kate’s eyes.  He lets the cab take him the rest of the way and then plants himself in a coffee bar nearby to consider his next move.  More accurately, to stare blankly into space with a painful hole in his chest and the creeping, crawling certainty that something went badly, badly wrong when Kate read those letters.

* * *

 

In her apartment, Kate is curled defensively into the couch with her eyes closed, trying to make sense of everything.  The time spent at the range has given her a little distance, allowed a small degree of calm to smooth her churning mind.  What she’s read claws at her mind.  She can’t _not_ see it.  She certainly can’t see why Castle would have any desire to keep coming around.  Especially since her own letters made it so transparently clear that she didn’t trust his motives.  And yet… and yet he did.  Despite having read two of them some considerable time ago, both of which revealed that same point.  He shouldn’t want to see her.

 _Stop assuming, Kate.  Don’t just think you know how Castle feels and make decisions on your own. You’ve been wrong every single time you’ve done that.  Detect, Detective.  And then try talking to him, rather than hiding._   If Dr Burke has taught her anything, it should be to distrust her initial reactions to emotional moments.  Though she couldn’t have faced Castle in a public bar, with others around, whether she’s right or wrong, after this.  One way or another, though, she started this, and now she has to finish it.  Wherever it takes her.  Them.

So.  Slow up, and think.

Consider, first, the timeline.  It’s where she always begins, at work.  The letters are at the beginning, and the middle.  But there’s been a change, since the middle.  There are no more letters, not since they actually talked to each other.  So all the letters refer to times that are past.  Not all the feelings expressed in them are still as raw.  She snags on that sudden realisation.  Since these letters, they’ve talked.  Openly, and honestly.  So the timeline doesn’t stop where the letters do.  There’s more, and it’s changed the basis of how they act from the lies and hiding and running away to – mostly – attempts at openness. 

Now, consider evidence.  Castle knows how damaged she was.  Is.  He’s seen it for real, in the street, at the range, at his loft.  He’s seen her discomfort with his family, and theirs with her.  Maybe he’s not expecting some vision of perfection, or Happy Families in one short step.  She hopes not, because there’s no chance that he’ll find either of those here.  He’s seen how imperfect she is.  He’s the one she hurt so badly. 

And yet, he keeps on showing up.  _Not just the words, Kate.  You made the mistake of only listening to the words for three years.  Look at the actions._ Which might just imply that whatever she’s providing to him, it’s enough.  Enough for him.  Even if she doesn’t think it can be.  It’s not up to her, to decide his feelings for him.  The last time she tried that, he called her on it. At least this time she’s recognised it first.  She realises that she’s trying to run away, because she’s scared.  Scared that someone actually understands her, sees her, and wants to stick around anyway.  Scared because she’s bared her soul, and now she just wants to hide from it.  Cowardice isn’t being scared of being shot, or having flashbacks and dying again each time.  Cowardice is running away from your own imperfections rather than trusting your friends to be there for you anyway.  _Where’s your courage, Kate?  Did you lose that, too, the day someone put a bullet in you?_   Or is she just reverting to old habits: abandoning something that could be good before she’s ever really in it, just in case she’s abandoned later?  She wasn’t going to do that any more.  Cowardice is recognising that you’re reverting to bad habits and doing it anyway. 

She isn’t going to be a coward.  Not any more.

She reaches, shakily, for her phone, clicks out a short message.  _Come over? We need to talk._  But as soon as she’s done it, she collapses into herself, all her courage gone.

* * *

 

Castle reaches frantically when he hears the beep of his phone, hoping desperately that it will finally be Kate, but knowing it could as easily be his family, or Esposito – he hadn’t missed Espo’s expression, promising interrogation, even amidst his worry about Kate. 

It’s Kate.  It’s not reassuring.  _We need to talk_ generally does not bode well, in any relationship.  All his own insecurity that he’s pushed too hard returns full force – not that it had gone any great distance from which to return.   He’s sure she’s about to ask for space and time.  Or just tell him to back off, she’ll call him.  _There in five_ , he taps back.

And in five intimidating, daunting moments, he’s reached her apartment, and knocks softly on the door.


	70. If my words break through the wall

She hasn’t seen – especially as she hasn’t looked for - the text replying to her, expects that Castle’s coming from the loft, or the Old Haunt, both of which take a little time.  The quiet tap on the door only a very few minutes later comes as an unwelcome, far too-soon surprise, leaving no time for her to collect herself or her thoughts. So when she opens the door, trepidation in every movement, shying away from the entry, she hasn’t manufactured a defence to the hard shock of seeing his concerned face, and immediately overlays on it the pain laid out first in his letters and then at the book signing.  She knows what that looks like, and in expecting to see it, does.  She can only bear a flicked instant’s glance, then drops her eyes and stares only at the floor.  She’d said they needed to talk, but she… can’t.  All the words she might have used have drowned in the sea of tears barricaded behind her eyes.

When the door opens, she isn’t initially visible, hiding behind the wood.  She’s not looking at his face, only at his feet, or the floor, in a way he hasn’t seen since the beginning and hoped he’d never see again, the skimmed half-glance to avoid looking him in the eye, and when he pulls together the nerve to take a long, searching gaze of his own at her she looks dreadful.  Ravaged. There’s only one answer for whatever is going on in her head that doesn’t seem as if it will definitely be hopelessly wrong.  _No backing off, Rick.  You promised to catch her if she fell_.  And it seems that Kate’s definitely fallen; gone over Niagara in a barrel.  He takes her into his arms and cradles her unresisting figure.  She might as well be lost in a full-scale flashback for all the response he gets.  She doesn’t help, or protest, or resist, as he walks them to the couch and sits down, cosseting her into his lap.  Now what?  She hasn’t run away, she’s even asked him to come, so they can talk, small consolation after this morning’s disaster, but she isn’t _here_ either.  He settles for stroking her hair, emanating quiet serenity and hoping she’ll come back.  If she’s tucked against him, safe in the curve of his body, he’ll know how she’s taking … things… from the reactions of her body, even if – or when – she doesn’t say a word.

Nothing happens, no-one speaks.  Castle wonders how he got here.  More to the point, he also wonders how he’s going to move from _here_ to _there_.  Wherever _there_ might be.  Where does he want them to be?  More difficult, where does Kate?  Well.  He knows where he wants to be eventually.  But that’s not realistic now, nor for some time to come.  Today’s hardly proof positive that they’re – either of them – are fixed.  Although he supposes that they at least managed to work through it.  Still, it’s hardly a stable foundation yet, even if it’s so much better than it used to be, and this, right here, right now, is not doing anything to help.

So.  Where does he want them to be now?  Start with the simplest thing – he wants a  _them_ .  Which looking at Kate’s face is … less certain than he’d like.  Where does he want them to be at the end of this evening, say?  Tomorrow can look after itself, for the moment.  Leave aside the instant, stupid, hindbrain response of  _in bed, together, fixed_ .  Intimacy –  _wrong word, Rick, sex would be more accurate_ – can’t solve this.  Talking – might.  She’d said they needed to talk , but it doesn’t sound like she’s doing any of that, and it doesn’t sound or look or feel as if she’s going to be able to any time soon.   _So start a conversation, Rick.  Carefully_ .  And then he opens his mouth and blurts out the first words that come to mind, wholly unfiltered.

“Why didn’t you tell me how you felt?” 

So much for _carefully_.  That was about as careful as trying to do embroidery with a pile driver.  “I’d have done whatever you needed me to.”  He can feel the sharp, immediate flinch, and tightens his arms against expected escape.  He has to keep her close, protect her from her demons.  Possibly that wasn’t the best place to start, reminding her of how wrong all her assumptions had been.  But having said it, however accidentally, maybe it’s not such a bad place to begin, after all, because she’s never articulated that answer for herself.  It’s a conclusion he’s drawn, but never that she herself has told him.  Even when they shared truths, she’s not admitted why she never told him how she felt, in the hospital or after.  It’s because she wouldn’t give him a reason to stay, when she thought he’d want to go.  Wouldn’t ask for anything.  Wouldn’t influence his decision.  Except of course it did, because it _influenced_ him to think she didn’t care.

He waits, loosens his arms when she doesn’t try to move away.  Eventually, there’s an unintelligible, misery-soaked whisper; caught, muffled and deadened by the silk curtain of her hair.

Whatever it was, it’s not repeated, and he doesn’t dare ask.  The next time she speaks it’s at least audible, and much shorter.

“Why are you here?”  It’s not a challenge, just a desolate question.  He decides on the obvious answer, trying to coax her into the give and take of a discussion by deliberately misunderstanding her meaning.  He knows exactly what she means, but if he answers that now he’s pretty sure she’ll go back to non-communicative reserve.

“You asked me to come.  You said we needed to talk.”  He tips her chin up so her hair falls back and he can see her face.  She’s looking past him, into the wall and the horizon only she sees beyond it.  “Here I am, here you are, but I don’t hear us talking.”  Another sharp flinch, another reflexive tightening, another space of silence.  “I can sit like this for a very long time” – last time he’d suggested he do that was after her most recent flashback – “but if you wanna talk…” He lets that die away into the quiet apartment, lets her take the meaning.  _If you want to talk I’ll listen_.

“You know that’s not what I meant.”  There isn’t even a snap to that.  That’s worrying.

“So what did you mean?”  He’s pushing, just a bit.  Quite a lot.  As hard as he thinks he can.  He can’t catch her if she won’t reach out for him.  _Daring young man on the flying trapeze_.  Well, man, anyway.  Young… you’re as young as you feel.  He steers his mind away from that distraction, and the _other_ version of the second statement.

Suddenly she’s brought her head up and her eyes are flaring, intent.  “I read your letters.  You hurt _so much_.  Why did you come back?  Why are you here, now?”  She still doesn’t understand, does she?  Or… she does understand, and she needs him to say it.  But not yet.  He thinks he’s answering the second question first, but actually, he realises, it’s the answer to both.

“Because I read your letters.”  Which answers, but doesn’t explain anything, though it demands that she involve herself in the conversation.  Except she doesn’t.

“Oh.”  That falls heavily into the air, followed by nothing.

She’s asked him here, saying they _need to talk_ , and she has absolutely nothing to say.  Every silence-laden minute that she hasn’t anything to say, her limited stock of courage reduces further, the chance of her saying anything is winnowed down by the flails of her insecurity.  Asking him to come had been a mistake.  Not asking him to come would have been a mistake.  She doesn’t understand his answer, and she’s too insecure to ask.  The range of possible answers is too wide: from _I want to tell you - or show you - how hurt I am by them_ through _you’re so damaged I can’t deal with it_ through _finally I understand everything_. 

“Why did you give me your letters, Kate?  Why tell me how you felt now?”

“Because I thought…”  Her words trail diminuendo into nothingness.  What had she thought?  That he might be able to stand the truth?  That she might?  The first may be proved true.  The second… not so much.

“Thought?” Castle says softly.  She can hear a small rueful smile lurking behind his words.  “Whenever you start to think hard about anything that isn’t a case, it worries me.”

“Thought we could each deal with it.”  She tries to turn away, move out his clasp.  He doesn’t release her.

“I’m not going anywhere, Kate.”  He doesn’t say _and nor are you, till you talk to me properly_ , though that would be tempting _._    She’s not a child, to be managed like that.  “Talk to me.  I can’t answer if I don’t know what you’re asking.”  She feels his chest rise, fall, rise again, taking in a deep, stabilising breath.  He only goes back to the first question.   “Why did you give me your letters now?”

She’d told herself that she wasn’t going to be a coward any more.  But bravery hurts, too.  One way or another, whatever she does next is going to hurt.  Might as well be hurt by doing something rather than nothing, she supposes, defeatedly.

“To be honest.”   She stops, breathes raggedly.  Useless tears are puddling in the corners of her eyes.  “So you saw the whole story.”  Stop.  “You always want the story.”  And on a rush, “I thought I could deal with your story.  But I don’t think I can.  It’s too much.”  She pulls hard away, half-rising, still speaking in a hard, emotionless tone.  “You keep on coming after me, no matter how badly I’ve hurt you.  I’m not enough for that.”  She sits down again, separated by mere inches physically and a mile-wide crevasse of pain.

Pause.  Rewind.  She’s read his letters, and she doesn’t think she can deal with his side of the story?  No no no.  Not happening.  It’s his turn to be silent, when all his instincts are to speak, tell her how wrong she is.  At least, this time, she’s not trying to tell him how he should feel, though he can hear the words in her over-loud thinking.

“It’s my choice to come after you if you do, though.”

“That’s not a relationship.  That’s masochism.”

“I did offer to let you spank me.”  She doesn’t even roll her eyes.

“Why do you keep coming back if all it does is hurt you?”  And finally a question that he can answer.

“Because being with you doesn’t hurt me.”  She looks hopelessly disbelieving.  “Okay, sometimes it does, when we’re fighting.  But mostly it doesn’t.  It’s not being with you which hurts far more.”  He has to press on further.  “I was hurt in the summer because you wouldn’t let me be with you.  But that’s changed now.  Hasn’t it?”  The last sounds rather uncertain even to his own ears, and he’s unutterably relieved to see the slow nod.  Not quite broken, after all, if she’s still accepting that point.  There’s still a _them_.  He moves up, puts his arm around her, squeezes very gently and relaxes a little when she doesn’t resist the pull towards him. 

“You were right.  Right not to share them earlier, but right to share them now.  To show me your side of the story.  It couldn’t make me think any less of you.”  Far more, in fact, because she’s shown him everything, which was… unexpected, and for someone as private as she, an unimaginable demonstration of trust.

“Now we both know the whole story.  Why we did what we did.  That’s got to be good, right?  Complete honesty?”  It doesn’t look like she’s convinced.  But she’s not turning away.  He slips a hand up, strokes gently over her cheek, curves around the sharp line of her set jaw and turns her face fully towards him.  She’s not crying, though the effort that’s taking is plain, nor yet does it seem as if she’s thinking.  She’s simply… stopped.

Castle ponders, still with Kate in the curve of his arm, as motionless as if she were a store-front mannequin.  He’s not sure whether pushing further now, asking again _why didn’t you tell me how you felt?_ would be right or wrong.  Kate’s balanced on a razor-edge, her demons waiting, claws out, should she fall on one side, and it seems like his demons – as she sees them – equally ready on the other.  She needs to stay balanced, until she’s ready to step down into safety herself.  _Jump, Kate, and I’ll catch you_ is… too big a leap, tonight.  He stays quiet and close, and waits.  Because now he knows, he is sure, that she loves him; she wrote it in every word of every one of those letters, even the ones that never mentioned it, and as he’s sure of that, he can wait, almost forever.  _Love is patient_.

Kate draws comfort from Castle’s steady presence and equally from his silence.  No words, now, to conceal and obscure his actions; he’s come to her, again, but this time she’s asked him to; despite her inability to talk, he’s simply there, support without demands.  Whatever she’s done, he’s chosen to follow her now, to be here.  To stand beside her.  Just like he’d written. 

And suddenly it’s easier to start.

“I wanted you there.  All summer, I wanted you to be there.”  There’s a soft rumble that might be _I know_.  “So I wrote you letters because I couldn’t ask you to come.”  Another rumble, deep and warm.  This one has a faint note of query.  “You know why.  You read why.  I would have gone, even if…” but she can’t quite say _even if I’d known how much you love me._   “But I could have told you why.”  She curls softly inward, towards him.  She feels his arm unconsciously, automatically, come closer around her.  “I gave you the letters so you knew everything.  I don’t think we can move forward if you don’t know everything.  And… and if you knew everything and it… if it were all too much, then…”

“Then?”  Sharp tension bleeds through the single word. 

“Then I’d have known it now.  Before I went back.”  Only her very precise choice of verb tense stops him before he loses control and tries to defeat her insecurity the only way he might have thought would work against it: through the heat and weight of his body and the ferocity of her responses.  It’s just as well that language is his life, or he’d have missed the subtlety of those sentences, because that’s a very small change to hang his hopes upon.  Conditional tense – oh, so tense - but that condition’s not fulfilled.  Nor will it ever be, here on this side of a sniper’s bullet.  He forcibly relaxes the inadvertent lock of his arm around her, and gently tugs her still closer in.

“But you’re here,” she continues, softly.  Armistice, at last.

And those words close down any chance of an over-emotional reaction, showing him that she doesn’t now think; and, more, that she _knows_ ; that it wasn’t too much for him to bear.  Still, she needs some reassurance, confirmation, that he understands that, what she’s so delicately intimating.  Not too far, not too fast: they’ve both read each other’s letters, but this careful, hesitant, stuttering conversation could easily collapse into overwhelming, untimely emotions – good or bad - if either one steps too far.  It’s not a time for impassioned declarations.  Today’s been quite emotional enough without that, and anyway, it won’t mean anything if it’s said in the heat of another crisis.  That was half the problem the first time round.  But still, some way, some reference to what they both feel.

“It’s not too much for me.  You have to know what you were telling me by giving me those letters.  Whatever else they might’ve said, that was enough for me.”  She burrows into his shoulder, but he’s not going to let her hide now, re-aligns her face to be visible, holds her tight.

 “You have to believe me.  It’s up to me to decide what I want.  I want you.  Just you, however you are.”  She looks down, away.  “You’re enough for me.”  And he kisses her, gently but relentlessly, and with absolute commitment, because he’s run out of words.  There are no more words for tonight: the words are all in the letters.  She’s read his letters.  He continues.

“You needed to know everything, too.  How I felt.”  There’s a small unhappy wince against him.  “We both needed to be honest.”  He winces, too, thinking about his last failure in that respect, and relapses into silence.

“Castle…”

“Mmm?”

“You’re more than enough for me.”  And for the first time since he came in the door she takes some initiative, pulls his head down towards her and kisses him in a frantic, desperate, _don’t-leave-me_ way; and if she’s not using her words to tell him how she feels, well, neither is he.  Time enough for words, when everything is calm.  For now, actions speak louder than words.


	71. I wish that I could freeze the picture

The loft is dark and quiet when Castle gets home, rather late.  He thinks they’ve come to a safe landing: albeit not everything’s – quite – been said; they understand each other.  He remembers that he’s seeing Dr Burke in the morning, and thinks that maybe this will be the final scheduled appointment, though he supposes he can go back on an ad-hoc basis if he feels the need.  He rather hopes he won’t.  Therapy has undoubtedly been extraordinarily useful, but he’d very much like it if he never had to undergo it again.  Especially considering that the first cause was Kate being shot, almost dead.  _But she very much isn’t_ , he reminds himself, happily.  _Not dead.  Mine._ Very much his.  _She loves me_ , beats his heart.

Dr Burke, then.  Maybe a discussion about Alexis, because that’s now the biggest remaining problem on Castle’s plate.  At least, assuming he and Kate can continue this unusual, but productive, course of honesty and talking.  Alexis has barely been visible since Sunday, vacating her room only for school and meals at which she’s hardly said a word.  No-one’s putting pressure on her, no-one’s making any reference to her behaviour, but everyone living in the loft knows that at some point he and his daughter have to finish that conversation.  Because all those relationships have to be made right.  It occurs to him that he’s never asked Kate what she expects, and, which might be a rather different answer, what she wants, by way of relationships with his family.  That’s a can of fat white worms to open another day.  He’ll settle for enough collective civility and possibly even friendliness that Kate can be persuaded to stay here with him, some nights.  He wants that, badly.  He’d wanted to stay with her, tonight, but in the end decided he should be home, be there at breakfast.  There’ll be other mornings.  Lots of other mornings.

He ought to go to bed.  To sleep.  But his laptop’s caught his eye, and his mind is still in motion, and his latest story is suddenly swirling in his head.  He sits down in his study and begins. 

When he next looks at the time it’s four a.m. and his fingers, wrists and back all ache.  He sets an alarm to extra loud and is asleep in instants, mind emptied to peace.

Breakfast follows the current pattern of uncomfortable silence until Alexis leaves for school, trailing relief that she’s going out the door behind her.  Castle looks worriedly after her, missing the little girl who used to hug him before she left.  That was all of four months ago, that she wasn’t too old to hug him goodbye.

“What are you going to do about it, Richard?”  From her tone, his mother clearly thinks Alexis’s woes need sorted sooner rather than later.

“Talk to her, again.  I wanted to give her time to think about things and come up with her own answers, but it doesn’t look like it’s happening – unless she talked to you?”  he says hopefully, and is instantly disappointed by Martha’s shake of the head.

“Not at all, darling.  I gave her every chance, but all she’s done is homework.  She hasn’t even mentioned what you already talked about,”  Martha says inquisitively. 

“Mother, that’s up to Alexis to tell you.  If she hasn’t, I’m not going to either.  But… if you can encourage her to talk to you then that would be good.   She needs someone to talk to, and I don’t think it’s likely to be me till all this is sorted out.”

“Speaking of sorted out,” Martha says insinuatingly, “what about Katherine?  Is she coming for dinner tonight?”  Castle looks very sharply at his mother.  That hadn’t been subtle in the slightest. 

“Mother, why exactly are you so keen to see Kate?”  Suspicion is written all over him.

“Really, darling.  I thought you wanted us all to be friends.  I’m just doing what you asked.” 

Yeah, right.  This sounds more like interference.  Hmm.  Maybe not quite interference, but certainly, having controlled to date her general urge to indulge in what Martha would refer to as open conversations and he would call – certainly just now – cross-examination, he’s perfectly sure that what Martha actually wants is a discussion with Kate.  Preferably without him there.  And while he is likewise perfectly sure that Kate will say not one syllable beyond the limit she wants to set, whether he’s there or not, he’s also unwilling to have this still fragile understanding poked and prodded and probed in his mother’s inimitably invasive way.  He might as well hire a bulldozer.  It would have the same level of tact and diplomacy.

“That’s very sweet of you,” he says, not troubling to hide his sarcasm.  “I’ll be sure to tell Kate that.”  His mother fixes him with an intimidating stare, of the sort which hasn’t worked on him since he was eight.  “Don’t meddle, Mother.  I don’t need another dose of your psychoanalysis.”  The intimidation level is increased significantly.  “Kate will come for dinner when she wants to.  But if it makes you happy, I’ll specifically invite her over tonight.”  His mother produces a satisfied, smug smile but fortunately refrains from further comment.  Castle snitches the coffeepot and takes it with him to his office.  Some mornings, especially when he’s short of several hours’ sleep, inspiration comes not from muses but from caffeine.  Though he’d rather have had both, together.

He tries to write, somewhat desultorily, for the time between breakfast and Dr Burke.  His appointment is really rather too early for his brain to have caught up with the day, but at least it’ll be done.  He sends Kate a short text, inquiring whether she’s intending to go to Central Park, and then sits back and contemplates his screensaver while contemplating much more enthusiastically the possibilities for later.  He expects, whether or not she comes for dinner, that Kate will want to go to his range this evening, but after that, well, there are lots of things that could be enjoyed.  And then it’s time to go.

* * *

 

“Good morning, Rick.”  Dr Burke is as cool and collected –and fussily formal – as ever, but his eyes are sharply intelligent.  Castle wonders why he’s never noticed that Dr Burke’s gaze is very like Kate’s, when she’s interrogating a witness.  Not, note, when she’s interrogating a suspect.  The difference is the level of empathy.  Dr Burke is always empathetic, even when he’s doing his imitation of the mind-reader act at the vaudeville show.  Kate – is not.  Not when it’s a suspect.  That’s intimidation, whether overt or simply by the force of her personality.  It suddenly occurs to him to wonder exactly how she’d got Alexis to the state she’d been in.  She wouldn’t have – didn’t, he’d have heard it – shouted, like he’s sometimes seen her do, but...  Hmm.  A question for later, remembering that before she’d done whatever she’d done, she’d asked his permission, so he can hardly object now.  If she’d done anything intimidating at all.  He thinks he’s becoming paranoid about all the tangled relationships around him.  He shakes off confusion and sits down.

“What would you like to discuss today, Rick?”

“Um, there’s two things, really.”

“Mmm?”                   

“Kate.”  This is not a surprise to Dr Burke.  Nor is this likely to be the emotional outpourings of a damaged relationship.  Mr Castle looks relatively equable, and there are fewer overtones of stress in his speaking of Detective Beckett’s name than on most previous occasions.  Mm.  If Mr Castle and Detective Beckett have already shared their letters, and Mr Castle is calm, then it appears to Dr Burke that it is likely that it has been a successful exercise.  However, an issue is recalled to his mind.  He excuses himself very briefly to give his receptionist an instruction that, should Detective Beckett request an appointment, she should be given the first available time.  He is marginally surprised she has not already contacted him.

“And the other?”

“My daughter.  Alexis.  She’s ... upset and I don’t know how to fix it.”  This is also not a surprise, after Dr Burke’s session with Detective Beckett.  However, Dr Burke resolves once more that he will not be charmed or cajoled into taking on Mr Castle’s daughter as a patient.  He is quite certain that Mr Castle will try to persuade him.

“With which would you like to start?”  Castle considers.  Kate, for once, might be a relatively quick topic.  Given the change in their... situation, he doesn’t need Dr Burke’s sympathetic ear as he pours out his feelings.  He can apply his feelings directly to Kate.

“Kate.  We’re... involved.”  Dr Burke notices with some considerable, well-concealed amusement that Mr Castle has used exactly the same term as Detective Beckett.  Mr Castle, at least, uses Detective Beckett’s given name.  Detective Beckett has never once used Mr Castle’s.  Dr Burke wonders briefly if she ever will.

“She gave me her letters.”  Dr Burke produces his professionally interested gaze.  Were he pressed on the point, he would admit to being deeply intrigued by this next chapter in his dysfunctional patients’ story.  He awaits it with anticipation.  After all, he has read these letters. 

“They were so” – Castle searches for the word and eventually settles on – “raw.  She hurt so much, and she wouldn’t let anyone help her because she couldn’t bear to ask.” 

Dr Burke observes the pain of reading Detective Beckett’s letters inscribed across Mr Castle’s face.

“I was so angry with her, when I read them.  She’d misunderstood everything.  And then...” He almost blushes, looks years younger. 

“Every word she wrote, she was telling me how she felt.  Feels.  It’s the first time I’ve really understood what she went through, even though she told me about it.”  He smiles softly, and Dr Burke sees, he believes, the man Detective Beckett is wholly in love with.  “She told me in every line that she loves me.”  Mr Castle appears to realise what he is revealing, and much to Dr Burke’s disappointment returns to his normal behaviour.  Dr Burke considers that this glimpse of the depths of which Mr Castle is capable is very revealing.  He had thought, on first reading Mr Castle’s letters, that he loved Detective Beckett with a depth of emotion that Dr Burke has rarely seen.  Dr Burke now considers that in fact he had been wrong.  Mr Castle is displaying a depth of emotion that Dr Burke has never seen.

“So I gave her mine.”  Mm.  “And I didn’t hear anything at all for the whole time afterwards, so I got worried and went over, but before I got there she asked me to come over.” 

That is really extraordinarily encouraging.  Detective Beckett could not have failed to have been deeply affected by the letters, and then to request Mr Castle’s presence argues a depth of feeling equal to that which has only just been fully revealed by Mr Castle.  Dr Burke had been convinced that each had very substantial feelings for the other.  He is now convinced that, provided they are able to continue with this honesty with each other, they have achieved a firm basis for a fulfilling, long-term, relationship.  He is deeply thankful for that outcome.  Romantically, it is exceedingly satisfying.  Professionally, it is a considerable relief that he will no longer be treating either of them regularly.  His pharmaceutical bill should decrease significantly.

“And?”

“We talked.  Well, I talked.  Kate wasn’t in much of a state to talk.  She was ...upset.” 

Dr Burke analyses the tone, which is wholly inconsistent with the banality of the words Mr Castle has chosen, and accurately surmises that Detective Beckett was extremely distressed.  “But eventually we made it all okay.”  Another extremely banal word choice, covering, Dr Burke is certain, catharsis, by both parties.  Mr Castle smiles again. 

“It’s going to be fine.”

There’s a short pause while Castle regroups his thoughts away from the exceedingly pleasant thought of Kate and of them together, to his current problem.

“You said that you wished to discuss your daughter?”  Dr Burke’s voice recalls Castle to where he is.

“Yes.”

“What seems to be the issue, Rick?”

“Alexis – and my mother – weren’t exactly happy about Kate going away all summer.  And they weren’t shy about showing it.  But then my mother pointed a prop – a toy gun from one of her shows” – Dr Burke remembers from a fragment of reportage that Mr Castle’s mother was an actress – “and Kate had a full on flashback in my loft.  And after that my mother was fine with her, but though I thought Alexis was going to be then she wasn’t.  She just got more and more unpleasant to Kate.  Then on Sunday Kate came for dinner after we’d been to the Hamptons and Alexis was really, really rude.  So Kate took her into my office and talked to her – I don’t know what she said” – Dr Burke recollects Detective Beckett’s version of this story and succeeds in neither his professional demeanour faltering in the slightest nor wincing in remembered discomfort – “but when she came out Alexis was crying and then told me all about it.”

“Mmm?”  Dr Burke produces a gently encouraging sound.

“Her boyfriend broke up with her” – Castle can’t help the growl in his voice – “and she was angry because I sent her to camp all summer – but she couldn’t stay in Manhattan.  What if whoever shot Kate came after Alexis?  But she thought I only did it so I could be at the hospital all the time.  And then she said that she was jealous because Kate and I were happy and then she admitted that she was jealous about pretty much everything about Kate.  But she was never like this before the summer, and I was with Kate a lot more of the time – following her at the precinct – then.  It’s not like I’ve neglected her.”

Mr Castle sounds as if he is requesting validation of his actions. That is still not an outcome with which Dr Burke is prepared to provide him.  Mr Castle needs to decide the correct courses of action for himself, although Dr Burke will provide guidance.  He notes with pleasurable satisfaction that he had been precisely correct when he had spoken to Detective Beckett: the child Alexis is indeed jealous.  Mr Castle’s words indicate, however, that it is more than simple jealousy from being excluded from Mr Castle’s affections, as this has not, in fact, been the case.  Nor, a little unusually for such a situation, is Detective Beckett trying, consciously or unconsciously, to achieve such an exclusion.

“Rick, would you please be a little more specific about the nature of your daughter’s jealousy?”  Castle considers Alexis’s words very carefully, still disturbed by the strength of her feelings.

“She was jealous that Kate makes me happy and she didn’t think that she could because I sent her to camp.  Alexis seems to think that she has to look after me, and she was upset that I wanted to be with Kate when she thought Kate would only hurt me.  She was just being protective, but I don’t need my _daughter_ to protect me.  ‘Specially not from Kate.”

“Mmm,” hums Dr Burke encouragingly.

“That would have been okay.  I could understand all that, especially when Alexis was breaking up with that little...”  He doesn’t finish that sentence.  The language he might use isn’t appropriate for a mature discussion.  “But then Alexis told me the rest of it.”

Another encouraging murmur.

“She was envious.  Of Kate’s looks, and attitude, and intelligence, and...”  He trails off.  The last bit is something that he really, really doesn’t like to contemplate.

“And, Rick?”  Dr Burke is reasonably convinced that he has accurately predicted the next few words.

“And ...er...”  Dr Burke waits patiently.  It is never easy for a father to understand certain matters concerning his daughter.  “She was envious of Kate’s... er...”

Dr Burke takes pity on Mr Castle.  “Your daughter was envious of Detective Beckett’s ability to attract men sexually.”  Mr Castle looks deeply uncomfortable.  “This is not at all unusual, Rick, in particular where your daughter’s relationship with her partner has failed.”  Mr Castle’s expression flickers through comprehension, suddenly replaced with sheer fury.

“If that little” – he uses a word Dr Burke would rather he did not repeat – “ditched _my daughter_ because she wouldn’t let him go too far then the next time I see him he’ll be ground beef.”  Dr Burke watches Mr Castle gradually control himself, and notes that protectiveness is not a characteristic displayed only by his daughter.  Control, however, only lasts a moment before Mr Castle makes the next, inevitable, deduction.  “Are you implying that _my little girl_ could have been...  Absolutely not.  No way.  She’s too young.”

“How old is your daughter?”

“Seventeen.”  Dr Burke says nothing.  He does not consider that reminding – he is sure that Mr Castle knows this – Mr Castle that the age of consent is seventeen will be in any degree helpful.

“That is not relevant to this discussion, Rick.  It is, however, relevant that your daughter is exhibiting perfectly normal reactions to a new development in your life at a time when she is undergoing an undoubtedly stressful change in her own life.  It is natural that she should want other areas of her life to remain constant, however unreasonable that wish might be.”

“Oh.  So I should put my own life on hold?  That doesn’t feel right.  I thought I had to get control of my own decisions, not let everyone else make them for me.”

“I did not say that, Rick.  I merely pointed out your daughter’s potential point of view.   However, that is a very interesting statement.  Why do you believe you should defer to your daughter’s desires instead of pursuing your own?”

Castle pauses.  Something about those last words of Dr Burke’s are triggering a memory of being right here in this chair, in this office.  Ah.  Right at the very first session, they’d discussed – the very first issue they’d discussed – why he just let Kate dictate his responses.  Um.  Is he letting Alexis dictate his responses?  He ponders some more.  He’d decided, and even told her, that he had a right to his own decisions.

“I don’t.  I don’t think I should, necessarily.  I just need to balance them, in each situation.  I don’t have to put Kate behind Alexis, or Alexis behind Kate.”  He suddenly remembers that he’d been cross with Kate for trying to put herself behind Alexis, in precisely that way.  Oh.

“But how do I help Alexis?  I can’t make her talk to me.”

“If you are available to her, then that is all you can do.  Your daughter needs to arrive at her own conclusions.  There would be no harm in you attempting to talk to her, as long as you respect her right to tell you matters in her own way.”

“If she needs some help, would you...”  Dr Burke shakes his head firmly.

“I cannot treat your daughter, Rick.  That is not an area in which I have sufficient expertise.  My receptionist has a list of practitioners and their specialties.  If you require assistance, choosing from that list would be more appropriate.  I will be happy to make a recommendation.”

When Mr Castle leaves Dr Burke is wholly unsurprised to find that Detective Beckett has made an appointment for the following day.


	72. Wanna have you near me

Castle wanders in the general direction of his home, not in any particular hurry to consider the difficulties with Alexis, and definitely unwilling to consider how – er – mature his baby might be.  That’s a topic he’d rather scrub from his brain.  Of course he’s had all the necessary parental discussions – that had been seriously embarrassing; it’s the only time he’d really wished that her mother, or his, would step up – but he really does not want to consider the reality.  Or even the possibility of – that – being reality.  Ugh.

He stops chewing over that highly unpleasant topic and discovers instead a reply from Kate to his text.  He thinks maybe a walk would be reassuring.  Or coffee.  Or just her company.  Maybe she can even tell him how a teenage girl might think.  Someone needs to.  And Kate never says anything about anything to anyone, so he thinks that he can talk to her without telling her what Alexis said, merely his conclusions from it.  He readjusts his direction to that of Kate’s apartment, while telling her that’s what he’s doing.  Shortly he’s advised that she’s putting the kettle on.

Castle bounces into Kate’s home to the enticing smell of good coffee and the even more enticing sight of Kate in slimline jeans and a soft jumper.  His _hello_ is protracted and enthusiastic, and unlike yesterday her response is blessedly free of emotional tension.  He relaxes into her warmth, needing simply to be close to her.  For all she’s drawn on his strength, sometimes he needs to lean on her as well.  She seems to know it, too, gently stroking his back.  When he finally straightens up, she casts him a questioning look, but turns to the coffeepot and mugs before he answers.

“Coffee?  Then you can tell me about it.”

He stares at her.  “How did you know I wanted to talk?”

“Castle, you _always_ want to talk.  But you look as if you want to talk about something specific.”  He’s still staring.  “Detective, remember?”  She sighs.  “Drink some coffee.  It might kick your brain cells into life.  If you have any.”  He growls.  Kate is relieved to hear it.

“My brain is perfectly functional.”  He leers.  “Along with the rest of me.  Shall I prove it?”  Kate rolls her eyes.

“What did you want to talk about, Castle?”  Kate’s turned serious.  She can see worry in the depths of Castle’s blue eyes, in the crease in his forehead.  She’s pretty certain that – for once – it’s not about them.   Yesterday… well, they might not be perfect but it’s all in very much the right direction.  Soon, she thinks idly, soon she might be able to say, not just show, what she feels.  Soon.  Just let her get through evaluation and requalifying and then… anything is possible.  Even telling him in words how she feels.  Even that.

“Well… the easy bit is that Mother wants you to come for dinner tonight.” He looks at the little frown between her brows and her clearly written suspicion.  “I felt like that too.  But I said I’d ask you – I was going to anyway, but if Mother is plotting you don’t have to come and I thought you might want to go to the range and we could do that instead and” –

“Stop, Castle.”  He has to stop.  He’s emptied his lungs.  He takes a few deep breaths, and from her amused gaze wonders if he looks as much like a large sheepdog as he feels.

“Yes, I’ll come to dinner.  Yes, I’d like to go to the range later.  Yes, I think your mother may be plotting but c’mon, I can deal with that.  But.  What about Alexis’s view of me coming to dinner, in all this?  Do I have to put up with another round like last time?  I’m not doing another session of teen interrogation.  If you want that, call Child Services.”

“Ah.  Yes.  Um.  That was the _other_ thing.”  He stops uncomfortably.  This whole morning’s been uncomfortable, so far, except for the last ten minutes.  And now it’s going to be uncomfortable again.  It’s not fair.  Why’s growing up so painful?

“Alexis?  Why d’you want to talk to me about Alexis?”  Kate is surprised.  She can’t see why Castle would want to discuss Alexis with her, after Sunday.  She’d thought that she’d done enough for Castle to sort that out.  She looks more closely at him and detects a certain degree of cringing. 

“Okay, Castle, what’s going on?”  She puts force into her voice.  “Spill.”  More, and much more obvious, cringing, and a distinct reluctance to start. 

“Usually it’s me who doesn’t want to talk about things,” she says with sardonic amusement.  “C’mon.  It can’t be that bad.”  Castle almost whimpers.

“It is.”  Kate raises both eyebrows.

“I went to see Dr Burke this morning.”  Okay, so he’s still doing that?  Park that thought for a little later.  “I wanted some advice on dealing with Alexis.”  Oh?  That doesn’t sound like it’s all been sorted out on Sunday.  “I need your help.”  What?  What help’s she going to be?  She’s never dealt with children, or teens. 

“When you were a teenager” – oh God.  Suddenly she’s sure where this is going.  She’d wondered just how far Alexis had gotten with Ashley.  Seems like Castle’s just had a forcible epiphany as to how grown up his daughter might be and is, as usual, leaping to wild conclusions.  Oh hell. – “while you were at home” – this is _not_ going to help him – “how involved were you with your boyfriends?”

“Are you asking me my number?”  She’s trying to get away from what is likely to be an excruciatingly embarrassing discussion.  Castle simply produces huge, pleading, puppy eyes.  She sighs resignedly, wriggles in discomfort.  “Okay.  At seventeen” – she looks hard at him, and sees him realise that she’s seen the whole story before he’s even told her it – “I was a bit wild.”  Castle winces, clearly considering that in the context of Alexis.  “But I didn’t do anything too… adventurous.”  She considers saying _that waited till I was at college_ and then thinks better of it.  This isn’t a good subject to tweak Castle’s tail on.  It’s one of the very few things he’s sufficiently sensitive about for her to leave alone.  It’s not looking as if what she’s saying is making him any happier.

“Castle, why are you asking _me_ this?  Why aren’t you asking Alexis?  I don’t wanna get involved with this.  I don’t think she’d appreciate it.”  Castle looks even more pathetically at her.

“ ‘Cause I don’t know how a teenage girl thinks.  And you were one, so you must know.  And anyway, how am I supposed to lead up to asking Alexis…”

“If she’s been going all the way with her boyfriend?”  Castle moves from pathetic to outraged in something considerably under a nanosecond.  Kate looks at him as if he’s a drooling idiot.  “I strongly suggest you don’t.  At least, if you ever want her to speak to you again.”

“Oh.”  Castle droops.

“Why d’you think that, anyway?  Alexis is sensible.”  Well, usually.  Her behaviour towards Kate aside.  And even that, Kate knows, is understandable.  If unpleasant.

Castle winces some more, outrage dropped at Kate’s view that Alexis is sensible.  He doesn’t really want to say why, but he’s got himself into this position and he doesn’t see another way out.  And anyway, maybe if Kate knows why Alexis was behaving so badly she’ll make allowances.  Or have a suggestion.  Or, of course, never come near his loft again out of sheer embarrassment.

“She talked to me.  After you’d... done whatever you did.”  He digresses, unsure where he’s going with this.  He can’t discuss Alexis’s confidences with Kate.  That would be entirely wrong.  “What did you do?”

Kate winces very slightly.  She’s not sure what Castle’s going to think of the next bit.  “I treated her like any slightly suspicious witness.  Asked the questions, made her think I was on her side, got the story.”  She closes her mouth firmly.

“You treated her like a witness?”  Well, he hasn’t screamed.  That’s a good start.

“Sure. I wasn’t going to get angry with her, and treating her like a friend was hardly going to work, was it?  She’s not very fond of me, you may have noticed.  That’s her choice, and I’m not going to force my way in where I’m not wanted.”

“She’s envious of you.”   That falls out his mouth before he can stop it. 

“ _Me_?”  Kate only just manages to stop her astonished squeak at the single word.  She recovers her voice to something a bit more befitting a mature adult than a pet white mouse.  “Why on earth should she be envious of _me_?  Like my life’s been a barrel of laughs?  She’s no need to be envious of anyone.  She’s got everything.”  That’s a little – a lot - more bitter than she’d like.  Alexis still has a mother, however transient, and a father who’s always been – and always will be – there for her when she needs him.

“She looks – looked – up to you, you know.”  The stunned look on Kate’s face would be worth an admission fee.  He justifies saying that on the grounds that his mother had spotted it.  Actually, so had he, and promptly forgotten.

“ _What_?  Don’t be ridiculous.  She barely knows me.”

“Now who’s being ridiculous?  Of course she knows you.  You’ve been coming round the loft for three years, and you got her that assignment for school.  She does look up to you.”

“Well, she shouldn’t,” Kate mutters.  “I’m no sort of a role model.”  Castle doesn’t say anything.  It won’t be welcomed if he tells her how impressive she is.

“ _Anyway_.” Castle says firmly.  “Anyway, she’s envious of you.”  Back to embarrassment.  “She’s behaving as if she’s envious of you being… well…”  Alexis had never quite said this, so it’s his conclusion.  He can discuss his conclusions with Kate.  A very fine distinction.  Razor edged, in fact. 

“Get on with it, Castle.”

“Hot,” he mumbles.

“And how do you get from that to the” – the word _idiotic_ is clearly audible –“idea that she’s been sleeping with Ashley?  Even for you that’s a far-fetched theory.  It doesn’t fit Alexis in the slightest.  She’s just not that reckless.  Even if she was in love with him.  She’s not stupid.”

Castle looks marginally relieved.  “You really think that?”

“No.  I’m just lying to make you feel better.  Yes, Castle.  I really think that.  And by the way, if _my_ Dad had asked me if I was sleeping with any of my high school boyfriends I’d never have spoken to him about anything important ever again.”

“So what am I going to do about Alexis?”

“You could try just leaving her to work it out herself.  That’s what my Dad did.  Otherwise, talk to her.  What d’you need to sort out, anyway?  Thought you’d managed to make everything right on Sunday?”

“She needs to understand that I get to make decisions about my life.  But she’s so upset that she can’t think straight.  And I don’t know how to fix it.”

Kate really does not feel that she’s in any way qualified to say anything, but she feels she needs to try.  So she asks the question uppermost in her mind.  “What d’you need to do to fix it?”

“Dunno.”

“Then maybe doing nothing is a good answer.  You’re always there for Alexis.  Just let her know nothing’s changed, you still are.  ‘S what my Dad did.”  Up till he didn’t, because Jim Beam was there for him.

Kate pours herself more coffee and hopes the subject’s closed.  She’s deeply disappointed when Castle carries on.

“If she wants to, will you let her talk to you?”

“I don’t think that’s likely, Castle,” she says dryly.  Castle keeps on pushing, though.

“I think that she’d feel better if she made things right with you.  You said last time you’d accept it if she apologised.  You will, won’t you?”  He’s just too hopeful for her to refuse him.

“Okay.  If Alexis apologises I’ll accept it gracefully.”  Castle looks expectant, and looks even more adorably puppyishly at her.  It’s irresistibly cute.  She sighs again.  She’s been doing a lot of that this morning.  “If – _if_ – she wants to talk to me I’ll listen.  But I really don’t think she will.”  She certainly hopes not.  But she can’t face disappointing Castle.

She pours them both even more coffee – somewhere in the last minute or two she seems to have drained a full mug - and buries her face in her own cup before she can be cajoled into accepting some other dumb idea.  At this rate she’ll be agreeing to something even more out of character, like wearing a dress to dinner.  She stops on that thought, keen to be distracted from the previous discussion.  Hmm.  A dress.  That might have some… advantages.  But not if she wants to go to the range tonight.  Not sensible.  After Friday, now…  She smiles at the idea, slowly and mischievously.

Castle looks up from his coffee, which is not helping his doubts as to how to deal with Alexis and make everyone friends again, and catches the tail-end of Kate’s expression.  That shifts his view of the morning some.  It looks like she’s plotting something.  He’s also very keen to be distracted.

“What’s up, Kate?”  He sounds a little husky, moves a little closer, puts down his mug with a determinative clunk.  Kate flicks a quick glance at him which drops from Castle’s darkening eyes to his lips and as rapidly slides away again.  Castle smiles slowly on his own account.  He’s had a disconcerting – there’s an understatement – morning.  He’d like some… reassurance.  Comfort.  And here right next to him is the perfect source of reassurance and comfort.  He slides up close and takes Kate’s cup away.  She grumbles at him.  She’s still grumbling when he tugs her into him and kisses her.  That stops the grumbling.  He finds the slide of her hands around his neck and into his hair very… reassuring.  Her reactions are very… comforting.  He’s very much happier.  For a time.  But then his worry about his daughter bleeds back into his mind and he pulls away to go home.

* * *

 

He’s a little happier when he gets home and finds no-one’s in.  Comfort and reassurance or not, he’s intending to do a little detecting.  He goes upstairs to Alexis’s room.  He knows it’s wrong, but he isn’t inclined to stop himself.  He looks through her bathroom cabinet.  Then he goes back to his study.  He feels a lot guilty, and even more relieved.  Alexis is not reckless.  And  therefore, she’s still his little girl.  He decides he ought to do some work, to bury the uncomfortable guilt that he’s so misread and mistrusted his daughter.

When Alexis gets in from school and goes straight upstairs – again – Castle decides after a few moments that he’s had enough of this, and follows her, intending to precipitate a discussion.  He taps on her door, not missing the irony that now he’s respecting her privacy when he hadn’t done so earlier. 

“Pumpkin?  Alexis?”  There’s no answer.  After a minute Castle pushes open the door and goes in.

Alexis is sitting at her desk, with books open around her and paper and pen in front of her.  All very normal, except that she’s staring into space instead of at her homework.  From the lack of writing when Castle peers over her shoulder she’s been staring into space since she sat down.  He pats her shoulder and she jumps and turns round.

“Dad!  What are you doing?”

“I came up to say hi.  See what you wanted for dinner.” 

“I’m not hungry.”  That’s not encouraging.

“You have to eat, pumpkin.  C’mon.  I’ll make pasta and ice-cream.  Not together,” he adds hastily.  It doesn’t seem to be improving the situation.  Alexis turns back to her studying.

“Alexis, we can’t keep on like this.  We have to talk about it.  I know you’re upset about breaking up with Ashley, and you’re sorry about how you behaved, but you’ll feel better if you do something to make it right.  I’ll be downstairs when you’re ready to talk about it.”

He thinks of something.  He doesn’t want Alexis surprised by anything while she’s still upset.  “Detective Beckett is coming for dinner, and she won’t say anything about it, unless you wanna talk to her.  If you do, that’s okay.  If you don’t, that’s okay too.”  He gives her a hug which doesn’t seem to do much good, and wanders off, back to his laptop, to try to do some work before making dinner. 

Behind him, he doesn’t see Alexis’s wince.  She knows she has to face Detective Beckett sometime.  She just really, really wishes, that it wasn’t now.  She doesn’t want to face up to someone she’s been so mean to for all the wrong reasons.  If she’d truly been upset about her Dad, it wouldn’t have been so bad.  She could easily have justified that to herself.  But she knows that that was only a part of it, and if she’d been thinking straight she’d have come around from that as soon as she saw Detective Beckett’s flashback.  Especially as Detective Beckett had said she was sorry for hurting her Dad.  And Detective Beckett has never, ever lied about her Dad.

She doesn’t expect that Detective Beckett will ever treat her the same again.  And actually, surprisingly, that hurts.  She doesn’t want to think that Detective Beckett won’t, now, look at her with the same professional respect that she’d done when Alexis identified the owners of that journal, or the same pleasant liking that she’d always shown if Alexis turned up at the precinct, or she came for dinner.  She wants that back.  Instead Detective Beckett will look at her in the same way she had in her Dad’s study, cool, assessing eyes and no emotion at all, not angry, not disappointed, not friendly; just like she’s any kid pulled in for a minor misdemeanour.  It’s not making her feel very adult, for someone who’s going to go away to college soon.  And Detective Beckett could have really helped her with that.  She’d said she’d been to Stanford.

Detective Beckett is the first chance she’s ever had to see a real woman with a real job, outside publishing.  And she’s really, really good at what she does.  She’s got her life all worked out, and Alexis could really use some help with that.  But there’s no chance now that Detective Beckett is likely to help.  Not like she did before, when Alexis needed advice.  She continues staring into space, homework neglected, sorry for how she’s behaved, sorry that she can’t ask Detective Beckett for the advice she so badly wants.


	73. Look for truthfulness

When dinnertime comes around, Martha’s home, Castle is cooking, happily domestic, in his kitchen, and Alexis hasn’t come out of her room.  Everything’s just about ready when Kate knocks.  Castle beats Martha to the door, to the accompaniment of his mother’s muffled snickers at his hurry.  He ignores her, with dignified indifference.  He doesn’t think it’s having the right effect.

But there’s Kate, wine in hand.  He doesn’t know why she feels the need to turn up with anything other than herself, but he supposes that upbringing wins out.  A guest always brings a gift.  Oh.  He doesn’t like that idea at all.  Kate shouldn’t feel like a guest in his house.  He really wants her to come and go (if she must go) as if it were her own, not wait to be invited in.  Hm.  A discussion for later.  For now, the only discussion he’d like to have is saying _hello._ So he does, rather more briefly than he’d like.

Dinner is accompanied by good wine and light chit-chat about nothing in particular.  Martha’s clearly holding something back, likely an interrogation of her own, under her sardonic contributions to the conversation, and Alexis is entirely quiet.  Nobody calls her on it.

“I’ll just clear up,” Castle says, “and then did you still want to go to the range?”  He waggles his eyebrows when his mother isn’t looking.  It’s clear he’s suggesting that they don’t.

Kate’s eyes spark dangerously.  “What do you think, Castle?”  Castle deflates almost immediately.  He’d known it was a long shot.  But then she smiles in a very _wait-till-after_ way and he grins in return and when she – quite deliberately – bites her lip gently he’s perfectly sure of how this evening will end.  He’s just beginning to collect plates when Alexis opens her mouth and speaks for the first time since dinner began.

“Detective Beckett,” Alexis says very uncertainly, “can I... can I talk to you before you go?”  Amidst his mental cheering that his daughter is – he hopes – about to try to make things right, Castle also doesn’t miss the rapid whip of panic across Kate’s face.  _Please don’t screw this up, Kate.  Please just let Alexis talk to you._  He is unreasonably relieved when Kate replies calmly _Of course, Alexis._   The panic has disappeared as if it had never been.

“Dad, please can I...?”

“You can borrow the office, sure.”  An audience is neither required, nor will it be appreciated.  Though he – and from her expression, his mother – would kill to be a fly on the study wall for this discussion.  He watches Kate precede Alexis to the office and the door shut.  He and his mother exchange worried glances.  The next few minutes are likely to set a pattern for however long Alexis stays in the loft. 

* * *

 

When the door closes behind Alexis, Kate considers her tone, demeanour and obvious nervousness and chooses a chair which has absolutely no connotations of authority, adult-telling-off-child, or even questioning.  She thinks that this is not a time when it might be necessary to assert her own presence.  Alexis clearly – again – has something to say, but this time it feels like it’s not likely to be hostile or rude, so it would be stupid and unkind to do anything to make it more difficult.  It’s going to be difficult enough.  Still, having got her in here, Alexis is not in any hurry to begin.  Her fingers are twisted tightly together and she’s clearly embarrassed.  Kate simply waits, quietly, without any expectations.  Gradually, her serenity permeates the room.

Alexis doesn’t know where to start.  This isn’t anything like the coldly furious adult who’d called her on her behaviour, she realises that, but that episode had left her in no doubt that if she oversteps like that again the results will be unpleasant.  Nor is it the woman who got shot and then freaked at a toy gun, who’s been shielding herself from all of them, whom her Dad is protecting.  Nor yet is it emotionless Detective Beckett, who’d dragged up in a few short questions all Alexis’s fears and insecurities, and then walked away from her tears without a backward glance and left it to her Dad to deal with the outcome.  And it isn’t, totally is not, the Detective Beckett who used to like her and thought she’d done a good job in her short stint in the precinct.  But of all these different Detective Becketts that it could be, this one’s closer to the last two than the first.  It doesn’t help.

“Why did you let my Dad follow you around?”  It wasn’t what she meant to start with.

Kate recognises that – this time – it’s not a declaration of war, simply a question from a worried child.  “I didn’t.”  Alexis looks confused.  “I was ordered to.”  It’s true, but very incomplete, at least now that she, Kate, knows the story.  There’s another length of quiet, while Alexis processes that.  Which is more than a little strange, because Kate would have expected that Alexis knew how her father had gotten himself into the precinct in the first place.  Maybe in all the stress of the summer and subsequent events she’d forgotten, or wanted to forget, that her father’s curiosity had started all of this.

“Why does he still follow you around?  He doesn’t need to.”  Alexis swallows.  “He could see you anytime.  Or even just stay in the precinct.  He doesn’t have to go to crime scenes and get shot at.”  It’s still a question, still not a challenge.

“You need to ask him that.  I can’t answer for your Dad’s motives.”  She’s made too many mistakes about Castle’s thinking and motives on her own account to risk describing them wrongly to his unhappy daughter.  “I don’t know why he wouldn’t stay safe.  God knows he never listens when I tell him to keep out the way.”  It’s the best she can do by way of reassurance.

Alexis hears the note of exasperation in Detective Beckett’s voice and abruptly understands very clearly where she’s coming from.  It’s the same exasperation that Alexis feels whenever her Dad’s being particularly childish.  Oh.  Realisation hits Alexis full force.  Detective Beckett totally does not like her Dad being in danger.  Really does not like it.  In that at least, maybe they’re on the same side, not in competition.  It spurs her on.

“I’m really sorry,” she falters.  Detective Beckett looks back at her with calm eyes, and nods appreciatively.

Kate is rapidly analysing how to play this.  Apology is one thing, but if Alexis doesn’t articulate what she’s sorry for then this will continue to fester.  Ugh.  Discussing her own feelings is quite bad enough.  Dealing with Alexis’s is not something she’s enjoying.  But she’d promised Castle that she’d give Alexis a proper hearing, a chance to state her case, so having done so, she needs to follow through.  Ugh, again.

“Accepted,” she says calmly.  “Now, why don’t you tell me why you’ve been so upset with me?”  It’s almost a – friendly?  Not quite.  Certainly encouraging – tone.  It still makes Alexis squirm uncomfortably on her seat.  Detective Beckett just waits quietly, not disturbing her with more questions, letting her collect her scattered thoughts.  Detective Beckett, Alexis realises, doesn’t _talk_ , and doesn’t force others to talk before they’re ready.  That fills in a little more of the way in which she’d behaved.  It’s just so different to how they do it that she’d never considered – till now, when she totally needs headspace – that it might be useful.

“I thought you’d ditched Dad.  And then he just went straight back to you and it wasn’t fair because he was there for you and Ashley dumped me.”  So it was about Ashley.  But Alexis, having started to talk, just like her father seems incapable of stopping.  “And you were always so in control and nothing ever went wrong for you” – is the girl _blind?_ \- and then when you got shot Dad could have too and Dad never pushed you for anything at all and he was still totally in love with you and it’s not _fair_.”  Kate’s attention had stopped quite hard halfway through that stream of verbal discontinuities.

“Alexis.”  That’s sharp.  Alexis’s head comes up without any conscious input at all.  “Alexis, are you saying that Ashley was pressuring you to do things you didn’t want to?”  She hadn’t meant to get involved in this.  She’d only meant to listen and make non-committal noises, but that pushes all her buttons.

“No-o.”  But that denial doesn’t sound very sure of its ground at all.  Kate waits.  She’s well acquainted with the ways of teenage boys.  An inviting silence spreads around her, enticing Alexis to fill it. 

“He didn’t.”  That’s a little more certain.   That’s also a considerable relief.  If Ashley had been, and Castle found out, which he would, then Kate is not at all sure that Castle wouldn’t go in for extreme measures.  She really doesn’t want to see him arrested.  Even if she’d approve of the measures.  “But I’m sure he wanted to and then he ditched me and what if it’s because I totally didn’t want to?”

Oh God.  How did she, Kate, end up here?  This is absolutely, positively, definitely the last time she agrees to do anything because Castle asks her to with those big pleading eyes.  She’s going to ban them.  On pain of handcuffs.  Not the good sort.  It’s an unfair advantage.  Undue influence.  And now she – _she_!  - is being pathetically asked for reassurance that not sleeping with her boyfriend was the right thing for Alexis to do and that it’s not why he ditched her.  What is she, Dear Abby?  Hell no.  She’s no role model for a teen, nor is she any sort of a counsellor.  But if she walks away from this now Alexis will be even more upset and with much better reason.  She promises herself that Castle will suffer for putting her in this position, and allows not one iota of any of her thoughts to cross her face or appear in her voice.

“I don’t think so, Alexis.  No good relationship would founder on that.”  She’s very firm.  Alexis doesn’t need to think that making her own decisions about what she does with her body is a problem.  No teen needs to think that.  “Long-distance relationships very rarely work.”  Her sole attempt certainly hadn’t.  Not that she’d put much effort into trying.  “’Specially at college.”

Alexis, having apologised to Detective Beckett, deeply appreciates that she’s not being made to feel any worse.  In fact, she’s feeling much better.  Detective Beckett’s confidence that it wasn’t her fault for not going further with Ashley gives her the idea that maybe she can get back together with her boyfriend.  Right up until the point that Detective Beckett tells her that long-distance relationships don’t work.  She can feel every bit of her recovered happiness draining away again.  She sniffs soggily.

Oh God.  Now Alexis is about to cry.  Her lip’s quivering and her nose scrunching up and she’s blinking rather too rapidly.  _Please get me out of here_.  Kate’s just scoping out her fastest exit route to find someone more appropriate for and more capable of consoling Alexis when it’s suddenly all too late.  Alexis dissolves into a crumpled pile of misery.  Somewhere in among all the messy, teary upset is what sounds like _sorry sorry sorry._   This is _so_ not where Kate needs to be.  She’s just not the right person to help.  Alexis doesn’t even like her.

 “Do you want your Dad, Alexis?”  Kate would do nearly anything to avoid this situation.  Possibly, but not definitely, short of assault with a deadly weapon.  On herself.

“Nooo,” Alexis wails.  Oh no.  Kate hasn’t had to deal with weeping teens since she was one.  “Don’t tell Dad.  Please.”  Kate’s about to make another suggestion.  “Or Grams.”  Dammit.  Another exit route blocked.

“Do you just want some time on your own?”  Kate says with rather more hope that this will help than expectation.  She’s entirely disappointed by the answer.

“Nooo.” 

“Well, who _do_ you want?”  _You can’t want me to stay_ is running through her head.  She only just stops herself saying so.  Ten minutes ago Alexis hated her.

“No-one else.”  Thank God for that.  She can go.  She stands, and is halted by the next words.   “Don’t go.”  No no no _no_.  This makes no sense.  “You won’t _talk_ at me.  You won’t try and _understand_.”  Is that really supposed to be flattering?  Alexis sniffles some more.

“Alexis.”  Kate’s irritated tone penetrates the sniffling.  “You’ve been systematically making it clear that you don’t want me around.   Why have you suddenly changed your mind?”

“Because Grams is too old and Dad’s just too much and I was mean to you but it wasn’t you really and you understood about Ashley and you went to Stanford and you know what it’s going to be like if I go and I’m really scared about going on my own and you’ll tell me the truth even if I don’t like it because last time you gave me good advice.” 

Clearly no good deed goes unpunished.  She is going to kill Castle for talking her into this.  And his daughter sounds distressingly like him when she’s like this.  Right down to the uncontrolled verbal diarrhoea; the ability to flip their views a full one-eighty in no time and with no warning; and the pathetically appealing, irresistible look.  She didn’t want to be on _bad_ terms with Alexis.  But this is hardly better.  She really does not want to get involved.  She’s not capable of helping.  She’s too damaged herself.  She sits back down, a safe distance away, and returns to waiting for Alexis to calm down.

Eventually the sniffling and tears stop.  Kate hasn’t done anything, save for pushing a handy box of Kleenex into range, taking the view that Alexis is not in a state where she can make any rational decision about who she needs comfort from, and still relatively certain that the correct source of comfort is actually Castle.  It doesn’t help her that she is very uncomfortable with the casual affectionate touching that Castle’s family all seem to display with just about everyone.  It’s not her style.  She makes a considerable effort and pats Alexis tentatively on the shoulder.

“Better now?” Kate says briskly, hoping to escape.

“Mphm.”  Alexis sniffs some more.  She looks about thirteen, tear-stained and dishevelled.  “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.  You can tell your Dad it’s all sorted out.”  Kate thinks with relief that it’s all done and she can get out of this highly uncomfortable situation in short order.  She’s done what she said she would, and Alexis seems much happier. 

“Will you tell me about Stanford?  Please?  I don’t know what to do about it.”  It’s still pathetically miserable.  Kate resigns herself to the inevitable.  She’s never going to be able to get out of this, is she?  But not now.

“Okay.  But not now.  When your Dad next invites me over.”  There.  That’s sufficiently pleasant and co-operative that Kate can feel she’s doing her share to mend matters.  But Alexis looks like Kate’s just given her a puppy.

“Thank you!”  Kate fends off – without it being noticeable - what looks like tearful enthusiasm with a tactical retreat towards the study door.

* * *

 

When Kate appears Castle is relieved to see that she is not angry, not stressed and not about to kill him.  Though she’s mouthing _Get me out of here_ with considerable force.  When Alexis appears behind Kate, somewhat soggy but smiling, he expects that everything’s okay.  He manages to extricate himself and Kate, explaining that they’re off to the range, without receiving further explanations – he’ll get those from Kate or Alexis in due course – and makes it as far as the elevator before Kate spills over.

“Never again.  Not ever.  I am never, _ever_ , letting you talk me into anything like that ever again.”

“So?  What’s new?”

“Next time you want help with your daughter get Lanie in.  Or Ryan.  Or even Esposito.  Not me.  Any of them would do this better.  I’m no good at this.  I’m no help.”

“She’s made it up with you, though.  You must have done something right.”  The tone screams _I-told-you-so_.  It doesn’t improve Kate’s mood in the slightest.

“It’s not my job.  _I_ catch killers.  _You_ look after your family.”  She breathes deeply.  “Not the other way round,” she snaps, as she reads the words _I catch killers too_ ready to fall from his mouth.  “I hate talking.  I hate emotional scenes.  It’s bad enough when it’s us.  I don’t want any others.”

“But it worked.”  Castle smirks very smugly.  “I told you she looked up to you.”  Kate emits a formless, furious noise and turns her shoulder on him, all the way to the range.  Castle actually thinks that this has produced approximately the best outcome – except for the cold shoulder – that he could have wanted.  Whatever Kate may be saying to him now, she’s done the right thing by Alexis.  Now all he has to do is make sure that his mother doesn’t throw sand in the gas tank, and it’ll all be resolved at home.  Still, if Kate’s going to unbend later, it’s probably less incendiary if they go back to hers.  If she unbends.  From the mildly chilly atmosphere, that might take a little time.  He hopes she’ll disperse her irritation with him (which is just so unfair: it’s not his fault that Alexis wanted to talk to her) by shooting.

* * *

 

When Kate finally vacates her booth, rubbing her finger where it’s sore from pulling the trigger, she seems in a better mood.

“Ready for that bet?” Castle asks, with a heavy hint of _not-that-you’ll-win_.

“Yeah.  Ready to take me to dinner?”

Castle bites his tongue on a retort of the _always ready to take you_ variety on the grounds that he likes his ears and nose intact, and settles for “You wish, Kate.  I’m looking forward to your cooking.”  He slings an arm round her, and notes with pleasure that she simply snuggles in without hesitation, neatly and comfortably tucked against him, and then puts her own arm round his waist.  That’s new.  He likes that.  There’s a short, affectionate pause in conversation as they leave.

“Want some coffee, Castle?”

“Sure.”   He smiles, noticing that it’s only very slightly downward.  He realises that Kate’s been wearing heels again for the last several days, except in Central Park.  It makes her more her old self.  Just tomorrow to go, and then she’ll be re-evaluated and everything will change again.  But for now, coffee.  Et cetera.


	74. Keep the faith

“Are you going to tell me what you and Alexis talked about?”  Castle’s nose is twitching with curiosity.  If it wriggles much more, Kate thinks, he’ll be able to use it to stir his coffee.  But she has no mind to indulge him.  She doesn’t expect him to share confidences reposed in him by other people, and she won’t be doing so herself.  She might not _like_ being the recipient of confidences, but that doesn’t mean she won’t keep them close.

“No.  Ask her.” 

That’s disappointingly definite.  Clearly Kate’s not talking to anyone about anything has significant disadvantages beyond the difficulties they’ve had between themselves.  He tries another tack.

“But I’m her father.” 

“So?  Doesn’t mean I have to tell you anything.  If you’re her father, ask her.  Not me.  And if you don’t like me not telling you, don’t ask me to get involved again.  I don’t wanna.”  Castle humphs disgruntledly.  He’d hoped that Kate would let him know what had been going on, but it seems like that’s a lost cause.  He recognises that tone: it’s not going to tell him anything at all.  He gives up on that plan, and swallows some coffee while he considers his remaining options.  All of them involve an extremely embarrassing and uncomfortable discussion with Alexis.  But he’ll have to do it.  _Man up, Rick_.  At least he doesn’t have to repeat the discussion involving how Alexis might treat Kate.  That’s sorted.

“But are you friendly again?”

“Suppose so.”  That’s still distinctly sulky.  “C’mon, Kate.  Surely it’s better to be friendly.”  There’s a noise that sounds much like _mrmph._   He drops the subject.  He’s perfectly happy with that limited outcome.  He knows Kate.  She’ll always do what she thinks is right.  It’s enough.  The rest will come, over time.

“You could come and be friendly over here,” he says insinuatingly.  “That would be better.”  Kate doesn’t move.  “C’mon.  Or I could come and be friendly over there.”  He slides across the couch.  Kate sighs theatrically and then relaxes into him.  That’s much nicer.  Her jumper had been enticingly strokable earlier, but he’d been too fretful about Alexis really to investigate that.  Now, however, he’s a lot less worried and a lot more in the mood to find out.  He draws a preliminary pattern on her arm with his free hand.  Mmmm.  Very soft and strokable indeed.  Better check that it’s the same elsewhere.  He draws some more patterns, moving up Kate’s arm to her shoulder and down again, till she hums softly and nestles closer.  The next time he runs his fingers up, he slips them over her jaw and round her cheek so that she looks up and bites her lip softly and he just has to lean over and kiss it better.  And since that seems to have a good effect, he thinks that it’s worth doing again.  And again.  By which point Kate has in some mysterious manner migrated into his lap and slid her hands around his neck and into his hair; and though her soft jumper is wonderfully strokable the smooth warm skin underneath it is even more so.  And then everything stops being soft and slow and soothing and starts being fast and hard and hot.

Some time later Kate’s apartment is randomly bespattered with items of clothing and very much quieter; only soft sleepy murmurs from her bedroom breaking the silence.

“C’n you stay?”  Castle runs a gentle hand over Kate’s hip, stroking lightly, and considers her relaxed state.  He really, really wants to stay.  But it’s entirely possible that he’s needed at home.

“Lemme check.”  He rolls out of bed to find shirt and boxers – Kate’s apartment is really not that warm, maybe she should put her heating on – and his phone; checking that it’s not so late that calling would be uncivilised.  Not quite.

His mother picks up.  It appears that Alexis is quite happy to be left alone tonight, though on enquiry that’s because she’s got a lot of homework, none of which she had started before dinner, not because she’s upset.  In fact, his mother tells him, she was more herself than in weeks, and his presence is not necessary.  Indeed, his mother is very keen for his presence to be absence, as she’d like a chance to talk to Alexis without him there at all.  Which is just a little worrying, even if it leaves him free to do what he wants.

He goes back to the bedroom to discover Kate sprawled out, mostly asleep, and occupying considerably more space than anyone that slim ought to be able to.  Shirt off once more, he slides into the six inches immediately available and makes a bid to take over enough room that he’s not actually falling off the edge of the bed, by the simple means of snuggling up and rearranging Kate into a neat package in his embrace.  She seems to be too sleepy to protest at his actions.  Or else she likes them.  Just as well.  He’s too sleepy to change them.  And he definitely likes them.

* * *

 

As last time, Kate wakes before Castle, but this time, though she still puts the kettle on, she slips back into bed and curls in, dozing on and off.  She’s not in any hurry to leave her nice, warm bed, full of nice, warm Castle.  It’s very reassuring, especially since tomorrow is D-Day.  Well, tomorrow and Friday.  She thinks she’s ready.  Dr Burke thinks she’s ready – she remembers she’s seeing him, later than usual, today.  Objectively, she is ready.  Subjectively… she could use a little reassurance.  Which conveniently appears to be waking up and reaching to make sure she’s still there.  She tucks into his chest and takes heart from the strength and muscle around her.

“You okay, Kate?” he murmurs in her ear.

“Yeah,” she says slowly.   “Suppose so.  Just thinking about tomorrow.”

Castle doesn’t need to stop and think.  “It’ll be fine.”  He skips a beat or two.  “D’you.. d’you want me to be somewhere around?  I know you don’t need me to be but if you want…”

“That’s very sweet.”  It’s not just a platitude, she really means it.  He can hear that in her voice.  “But no.  I need to do this on my own.  I’ll let you know when I’m done at 1PP tomorrow.  You wouldn’t be able to come to requalifying on Friday anyway.”  That sounds considerably more like the Beckett he expects.  For an instant, a doubt flickers through his mind that when she’s back in business she’ll back away, rebuild her shell to deal with her professional responsibilities, to keep her detachment from the mess that murder makes.  But then she turns into him and cuddles – yes, _cuddles_ – up and he’s sure that however professionally, coolly, and sardonically she’ll behave at work, out of the precinct it’ll all be very, very different from the way it used to be.

The kettle needs reboiled, when they eventually emerge from the bedroom and shower.  Kate checks the clock and calculates that she has just nice time to drink her coffee slowly and still be prompt to her appointment.  There’s only one thing she needs to discuss with Dr Burke: her reaction to Castle’s letters.  And their talk afterwards.  She’s still dismayed by how hard the letters had hit against all her insecurities; that she can’t make up for her behaviour, that she can’t be enough: and much as she hates _talking_ she recognises that this would be a good time to do some of it.  Still, she makes a face into her coffee.  Naturally, Castle spots it.

“What’s wrong?”

“Seeing Dr Burke.  Ugh.”

Castle looks inquisitively at her but doesn’t – amazingly – actually ask anything.  He also doesn’t, Kate notices, ask her if he can be in the vicinity while she’s at the psychiatrist’s.  He’s very loudly not asking that.  He’s trying, she realises, not to push into things she needs to do herself; picking up on the earlier signal.

“After that I’m going to the precinct range.”

“Okay,” Castle says amiably.  “Wanna come over for dinner tonight?  Sevenish.  Seeing as you’ll be providing dinner after Thursday.  Or on Thursday, if you like.”

“So sure of yourself, again, Castle.  You wait.  You’ll be taking me out for dinner.” She smiles in a way that indicates she expects to win.  It’s a perfect act.  Pause.  “I expect I’ll want to wear a dress.” Castle gulps.  Every time Kate’s worn a dress he’s been left incapable of thought.  Frequently, he’s been left incapable of movement and speech.

She gets back to the immediate point. “I’ll come over for dinner if you promise to protect me” – she pauses, and glares – “from teen dramas and your mother’s questions.”  Then she remembers something.  “She wants to know about Stanford,” she says resignedly.

“Oh,” Castle is a bit dispirited by that news.  He’d rather hoped that Alexis might have given up that idea consequent upon the break-up.  Seems not.  “Can’t you put her off?”

“No.  You want her discouraged, you do it.  It’s a great chance for her.”  Castle hrrmphs unhappily.  He knows it’s a great chance.  He’s really proud that Alexis is capable of achieving so much.  But he doesn’t want her to go.  Not yet.

Kate ignores Castle’s opinions.  He’ll be even less happy if she provides truthful answers over dinner.  No point borrowing trouble before then.  And on that note, it’s time to go and deal with the current portion of trouble.

* * *

 

“Castle gave me his letters.” 

Dr Burke observes that Detective Beckett is a great deal more strained than Mr Castle was.  That is not unexpected.  Mr Castle’s letters were undoubtedly a great deal more painful for Detective Beckett to read than vice versa.  He waits patiently for her next words.  When none are immediately forthcoming, he emits an encouraging sound, and waits further.

“Why does he keep coming back?  All I ever do is hurt him.”  She stops, breathes.  “I don’t deserve that.”  Another pause.

“He was so hopeful, and then I took it all away, and he hurt so much.  It was all my fault.  And then he came back, and I still don’t see why he did, even though he told me.”

“What has Mr Castle said to you, Kate?”

“He said not being with me hurt more than being with me.  Being with me didn’t hurt.”

Dr Burke considers his own knowledge of Mr Castle’s letters for a moment.  “Kate, please would you think about Mr Castle’s initial letters, written whilst you were in hospital.  What do you think those letters are saying to you?”

“At the start he was upset.  Guilty.  He thought he ought to have saved me, but he couldn’t have.  He just wanted to protect me.  And he said he loved me.  Over and over, every single letter.”

“Why do you not believe him when he says he loves you?”

Kate’s mouth drops open.  “What?  I do.   I do believe him.”

“Do you?”  Dr Burke has decided that Detective Beckett requires a portion of blunt questioning to enable her to confront her insecurities.  This, of course, has little to do with the remaining sting from her questioning of him.  Allowing his own feelings to intrude would be unprofessional.

“ _Yes_!”  She doesn’t doubt that in the slightest.

“Then why are you expressing such doubts?”

“Because of the next letters.”  Mm.  Detective Beckett is exhibiting a classical dilemma.  She clearly wishes to believe Mr Castle’s professions of love; however, she is unable to reconcile his actions and feelings, both of which are now aligned and have been, and continue to be, clearly demonstrated, with the behaviour she believes he should display based on the extent to which she believes she has damaged him.  In fact, she is projecting her own reactions to that degree of pain on to Mr Castle.

“Describe the next letters.”

“He was so hurt that I asked him not to come back.  He thought it was because he didn’t save me.  And then he was so angry that I went upstate without telling anyone, and then he suddenly changed halfway through the letter and he saw right into why I’d done it.  But then I got back to the city and didn’t call and he was so hurt all over again. And every letter he still kept saying how much he loved me but how could he when I hurt him like that?”  Detective Beckett stops sharply.  Dr Burke observes keenly as she reasserts her emotional control, which he had thought was about to fail.  “It doesn’t make sense.”

“Kate, please imagine for a moment that your positions were reversed: Mr Castle had been shot and had taken the same actions that you did.  What would you have done in those circumstances?”

That’s a difficult question.  Kate contemplates it for some moments.  What would she have done?  Oh.  _Oh._   She would simply have believed that he didn’t want her any more, and never tried to see him again.  Because that’s what she does.  Did.  She runs away and hides, abandoning relationships before she’s abandoned.  She’d never have believed it could be resurrected, and so she would never have fought for it.  But Castle did.  He’s a dreamer, and a romantic.  And he fights for what he wants.  He’d worked it out, and then – through sheer good luck – he’d seen the evidence that he’d got it right, and fought for it.  Her.  Them.  How does she deserve this man?

“I’d... have given up.  Taken the hint and left.  I’d never have gone on, if I’d been pushed away like that.”  She winces.  Clearly Castle has far more faith in her than she would have had, if their positions had been reversed.  It doesn’t make her feel any better at all.

He would have – _has_ – fought for them.  She’d fought for justice, and in doing so lost sight of anything else.  Till now, the wrong side of a sniper’s bullet.  Till Castle had shown her.

Shown her.  He’s always come back.  He’s said, and written, and shown her by his actions, how very much he loves her.  Just because she would have acted differently, doesn’t mean he has to act like she does.  She needs to stop second-guessing both of them; stop assuming he’ll act like her.  He never has, in anything else.  Why should he now?  She’s already thought through the concept that she shouldn’t make his decisions for him; should let him decide what he wants.  Now she needs simply to accept his choices, to come after her, to stay with her, to love her with all her flaws.  She needs to take that on trust.  What had he said?  _Just you, however you are._   There are no guarantees in her life, not even that she’ll see the end of any given day.  She sees the underside of life – and rather too closely, the wrong side of death – every day: she really ought to know that there are no certainties.  Except this one.  So keep faith with it, this one constant, this one good thing.

It’s all about trust.  _Love never fails._   And however misguidedly she had thought, however she had misjudged how he thought and felt, that’s what remains.  _Love endures all things._

“I see,” she says slowly.  “What I’d do isn’t what Castle would do.  I shouldn’t expect it to be.”

Dr Burke smiles encouragingly.  “Continue.”

“I need to stop letting my history decide how I think Castle should act.”  That’s confused, but Kate thinks she gets her point across.  “I just need to trust that he knows what he’s doing.”  Dr Burke smiles more widely.  “And I need to talk to him before I jump to conclusions.”

“Precisely, Kate.  Mr Castle has told and shown you how he feels.  You need to try to accept that.  Unless you consider that he is merely deceiving you for his own ends?”

“No.”  That is wholly definitive.  Dr Burke notes the force in that single word with pleasure.  “Absolutely not.”

“In which case, Kate, it is for you to act on that knowledge.”

* * *

 

Kate deposits herself in a cafe handy for the precinct range and abruptly realises that she hasn’t been to Remy’s since before the summer.  Though she’s not intending to lose this bet, maybe if she does that would be a good place to go.  She’s got good memories of good evenings spent in its comfortable booths, and it’s a way to go back to normal.  It says to her, and (she hopes it would) to Castle that they’re back in business, solving crimes and catching killers, together.  Just like they used to.  With a few significant differences, outside the precinct.

She drinks her coffee, disposes neatly of a light lunch, and muses over the session with Dr Burke.  She understands what she needs to do, but doing it consistently is going to be so much harder.  She’s not normally inclined to give her trust as a first option.  Even when it’s so amply justified, and she wants to.   She decides, not without a pained twist of her mouth, that she needs to talk to Castle about this one.  Maybe if he understands where she’s at, what she’s realised today, and more importantly where she wants to be, it’ll help.  Like the way he comes after her if she runs away, because she asked him to.  Maybe they’ll have time to talk about it after dinner.  She constructs a text that avoids the phrase _we need to talk_ , because that will only give the wrong impression, but lets him know that she wants time alone with him that doesn’t involve falling straight into his arms.  At least, not immediately.  Afterwards, now...


	75. This strange new feeling

Esposito is waiting when Kate gets to the range, Glock and a substantial number of clips in readiness. 

“Thanks, Espo.  You got time for a quick drink after?”

“Yeah.  I need to put in some practice, so lemme know when you’re done.”

Kate shoots steadily till the clips are done and she’s satisfied that Friday holds no fears.  Time to buy Espo some beer, small, inadequate recompense for all he’s done, these last few weeks.  He’s supported her all the way through getting back to proper shooting, shown her that her team is still there, and aside from Castle (which is an entirely different situation) he’s been the most important factor in helping her towards coming back.

“So, Espo, looks like I’ll be back Monday.”

“ ‘Bout time, Beckett.  You must be sick of sittin’ on your ass by now.  Desk’s waitin’ for you.  Along with four months of paperwork.”  Kate splutters.

“You boys not done any paperwork this whole time?  Yeah, right.  Surely the new Captain’s made you fill in forms occasionally?” 

“She don’t love us like Montgomery did, for sure.  She don’t love anyone.  Maybe she’ll like you.  But I don’t think she’ll like Castle at all.  She kicked him to the kerb, first time she saw him.  So if you’re bringing Writer-Boy along with you, you’d better warn him to lay low.”  Kate nods.  Esposito looks significantly at her.

“Don’t screw this up, Beckett.  You and Castle been dancing round each other for years, an’ he’s good for you, an’ now you oughta make sure he sticks around.”  Which Kate accurately translates to mean _Me an’ Ryan want to see you two work out, but I’m not sayin’ so out loud._   “Just don’t.  I’m just sayin’.” 

Esposito backs away from anything more on that subject as fast as he can.  He’s said his bit.  Beckett’ll know what he means, without needing anything said out loud.  Even saying that’s been enough for him.  He’s got a reputation to maintain.  But she needs not to screw this up, ‘cause it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to her.  He shakes off this unaccustomed sappiness.  Why, he’ll be going soft next, with all these romances around him.  Might be contagious, like the flu.

“Has the new Captain – Gates? – said anything about Castle?”

“Nah.  But she’s not been in a good mood since she took a call yesterday, and most of it’s directed at me ‘n Ryan, so I guess she’s been told he’s comin’ back, whether she likes it or not.”

That’s a considerable relief.  She’ll check with Castle later, whether he’s heard from the Mayor yet, in case Esposito’s got it wrong.  She doesn’t think so: he wouldn’t say it if he wasn’t pretty sure.

“Espo.”  He looks up, surprised by her tone.  “Espo, thanks.  For everything.”  She stops there.  She doesn’t want to embarrass him, they’ve known each other too long for her not to know how little needs to be said to him before it’s too much.  He knows what she means, this is pure cop-speak.  They both drain their beers, talk over other precinct matters, Espo giving Beckett a download on the new Captain, everything else personal understood.

“Let us know how it goes tomorrow an’ Friday, Beckett.  Gotta know if we need to stop using your desk for Ryan’s spare socks.  Need some warning to clean it up.”  Beckett glares at him just like she used to.

“My desk better be sparkling clean when I walk in on Monday morning.” 

But as she leaves she claps him on the shoulder.  It tells Esposito - message received and understood.

* * *

 

A long, soothing, mind-clearing run later, Kate’s showered and changed and has resisted the temptation to put on a dress and knock Castle’s socks – and other items of clothing - off.  She’ll save that for Friday night.  And in the meantime she’ll wind Castle all the way up for two days by hinting at the nature of the dress she might wear.  By Friday he’ll be thoroughly… enthusiastic.  Though she’s sure that some of that… enthusiasm might be channelled earlier.  She realises she’s only going down this route to distract herself from knowing she’ll have to _talk_ about her earlier insight.  Her mind’s stayed clear for just this long, and now that she’s ready to go over to the loft for dinner it’s all closing back in on her. She forces herself out the door.

Whatever dinner is about to be, it smells good.  And, compared with most previous recent visits, dinner passes off very peacefully, their plans to go to the range are generally approved by the assembled company, and all is well; at least until Alexis starts asking questions about Stanford, when even Kate’s bowdlerised answers leave Castle purple and spluttering and very obviously considering a full protective detail should Alexis go.  By dint of a careful mix of observation, distraction and wilful misinterpretation, Kate manages to avoid or divert any attempt by Martha to trap her into committing to some form of friendly chat.  _Ha_.  Inquisition, more like, though possibly in comfy chairs.  If she can just avoid that till Monday, work will be too overwhelming to allow time to talk to Martha.  What a shame.

Finally dinner is over, and coffee is produced, and Kate’s being ushered into Castle’s office with the assistance of a large warm palm in the small of her back.  Which right now is not reassuring at all.

She dives right in, because if she doesn’t she’ll talk about anything else she can think of, right down to discussing the life-cycle of the average New York cockroach.

“I saw Dr Burke this morning.”  Castle looks sympathetic.  “He made me realise that I was projecting” – she makes a face at having to use the psych-speak – “how I’d act in any situation on to you, and that’s why I couldn’t understand why you keep coming back.”  She stops.  That was nearly as articulate as Esposito discussing romance.  Understandably, Castle looks rather confused.   His mouth moves silently as he works through what she’s said.  She sees the moment he gets it: the quick flash of slightly pained realisation.  She winces slightly.  There’s a rather tense pause.

“You wouldn’t have come back,” he says bluntly.  “You’d have believed I meant it all because that’s what your history tells you.  You’d – maybe – have waited till I showed up.  You’re saying that you wouldn’t have come to find me.”  Another pause.

“How’s that different from what I did?  Okay, I didn’t know where to find you, and you would have in the same position – or you’d have misused police resources to find me” – he smiles – “but I didn’t come after you then.  And,” he says very confidently, “you did come after me.”  She looks blankly at him.  “You came to the bookstore.  Albeit you maybe did it because the shrink suggested it, but you came.  It was the first thing you did, after seeing Dr Burke.”  He looks at her stunned face, and moves to sit on the arm of the chair she’s occupying, puts a firm hold around her shoulders.  “You might expect me not to have come after you because you think you wouldn’t have, but I’m not sure that’s true.  Might be true in previous cases” – he smiles rather smugly at being the exception – “but you came, this time.”   It’s his turn to wince at memory.  “Even if I wasn’t exactly… receptive.”

“But you said – in your letter – that you would still have come after me, eventually, even if I’d not, even if you’d not seen the flashback.  I don’t think I would’ve.  If you’d not come, I wouldn’t have come after you.  I’d expect we were done.  You didn’t.  You never do, no matter what happens.  I don’t understand how you can do that.  But Dr Burke made me see that I should just accept that that’s how you are, and stop second-guessing it.  Trust you.”  She curls into his chest, so all he can see is the top of her bent head.  “And I want to.”  His arm tightens sharply.  “I do trust you.”  There’s enough emphasis on the last word to make her point.  “But I don’t find it easy.  You need to know that.  In case it helps.”  She stops, run out.  There’s a long silence, during which Castle’s arm doesn’t move one inch from around her.

“You think I don’t know that?  You think I didn’t work that out months – years – ago?  Why do you _think_ I keep coming back?  _Because_ it takes you so long to trust anyone.”  It’s anything but the whole reason, but it’s the important point here and now.  “Because I know that you trust me.  Even if you’re sometimes frighteningly bad at showing it, and sometimes you forget it.”  He grins, though she can’t see it, head still bent.   “You’d never have let me follow you the way I did – regardless of anyone’s orders – if you hadn’t trusted me to have your back.  We’ve just… moved on a bit from there, and we’re” – she appreciates the inclusive wording, even if it’s not exactly accurate – “still – er – adjusting to the differences.”  He loosens his arm just enough to be able to hug her, and fails to let go afterwards.  She’s still hiding in his shirt.  He lifts her slightly and slides on to the chair underneath her, drops a kiss on the top of her hair.  “It’s okay.”

His mind suddenly skitters off in a different direction.  “I heard from Bob.  It’s all sorted.  I’ll be there on Monday.  Though apparently your Captain isn’t very happy.”

“I knew that,” says Kate smugly, and rather inaccurately, only too happy to have something else to think about.  Castle squawks.

“How’d you know?  I only found out this morning.”

“Espo told me.  Captain Gates really isn’t happy.  Espo thinks you’d better lay low for a while – maybe not do anything too noisy?  Turn the sound off on your games?  Stop talking?  Nah.  That’ll never happen, will it?”  Castle growls at her, and then grins. 

“You wouldn’t like it if I didn’t talk.  Who’d come up with all the theories then?”

“The theories we come up with might make more sense if you didn’t suggest them.  Then again, I wouldn’t have anything to mock.”  Castle pouts at her.  It’s adorable.  So she allows herself to adore it, just a little.  Some mutual appreciation of their respective adorability follows, until Kate remembers, rather dismally, that she needs to be at her best tomorrow, and that means going home.  Alone.  Otherwise she’ll not sleep early enough, regardless of going to bed in good time.

Castle, to his credit, doesn’t try to dissuade her by a single look or gesture.  He knows how much tomorrow matters, and sees her politely to the door.  Though he doesn’t scruple to kiss her as thoroughly as he thinks he can get away with.  For reassurance, of course.

* * *

 

Castle waits nervously all morning.  When he still hasn’t heard anything from Kate by eleven, he starts to fret.  At noon, he texts Ryan and Esposito.  They haven’t heard anything either.  He paces his loft, completely unable to settle to anything at all, knowing he’s being ridiculous and that whatever happens they – this new, amazing _they_ – can deal with it, together; but not much caring that he’s being silly.  When his phone finally does chirp, he almost drops it in his haste to know the answer.  It’s very short.  _All good._   He’s dialling almost before he’s finished reading.  He only just manages to restrain all his concerned enquiries, stopped hard on the concept that now is not the time.  He can do that tomorrow.  For now, he needs not, absolutely not, to say anything at all that might in any way question her certainty that it will all go well again tomorrow.  So no questions now.  He’ll bait her, instead, and pretend he isn’t just as nervous about her re-evaluations as she is.  Or more so, because he can’t help her now, not in any way at all.

“So, Beckett, ready to lose that bet now?”  Though he thinks she can probably hear his relief and happiness that the first stage is complete falling out the end of every word.

“Bring it on, Castle.”  It’s the old, confident voice, that he’s rarely heard in the last four weeks.

“What took so long?  Have you been at the range for a sneaky extra practice?  That’s cheating.  Cheats never prosper, Beckett.”

“Nah.”  Though she might have, if she’d thought of it.  “They were just… thorough.  But it’s over now.  Tomorrow will be fine.”  There’s considerable satisfied emphasis on the last word.  “What time shall I meet you?  Oh – and don’t forget a spare pair of pants.”

“Pants?”  He’s confused.  Beckett sniggers.

“For when I beat the pair you’re wearing off you.  You’ll need some more.”  He growls, a little, happy to slip back to banter and snark for a while, then checks his watch. It’s already after one.  He needs lunch.  He’s achieved precisely nothing this morning, and he ought to edit his most recent chapter.  Even if what he actually wants is to collect up Beckett and spend the rest of the day – and night – together.  Beckett needs lunch, but if she wanted him right now she’d be saying so already.  He expects she needs a little downtime, a little space.  He won’t make her say so, though.  Not today.  It’s all moving in the right direction, and he doesn’t need to push to keep that going.  Not after what she said last night.

“Five?  Meet you at the range.  Finished by six, dinner on you around seven, tomorrow.”  There’s a snap of mock annoyance in his ear.

“Hope you’ve made a booking, Castle.  I don’t intend to lose.”  She considers.  “Five is good.  See you there.”  And cuts the call.  She needs food, and then some time to unwind and de-stress, alone.  Re-evaluation had been tough.  Physical had been fine, stats back to very nearly her normal level – she’s certainly had worse – but psych had been gruelling.  But – she’d come through.  No reservations.  Though 1PP had, like Dr Burke, recommended that she partner with a firearms qualified officer for a short while.  She supposes that’s normal.  She flops on to her couch, suddenly weary.  She’s got through it, and the relief leaves her drained.  Lunch can wait just a few minutes.

A little while later she investigates her fridge, finds it empty, and turns her mind and feet to the nearest sandwich bar.  She doesn’t want to make any more effort, until she has to go to the range.

* * *

 

At five, she’s approaching the range when she spots Castle, already outside.  There’s an odd kick in her chest, when she sees him, not one she’s used to, not the now usual feeling of pleasure when she’s with him.  It might almost be – joy.  She doesn’t analyse it, in case it disappears.  But as she walks up to him, she’s wearing a brilliant smile, that comes straight from this strange new feeling. 

Castle watches Kate as she swings along the sidewalk and marvels at the expression on her face.  He’s never seen quite that one before, and the knowledge that he’s put it there sinks security about her feelings deep into him.  He smiles back, and resists the temptation simply to take her straight back home and show her how that smile makes him feel.

“Ready?”

“Bring it.”

They choose separate booths at some distance from each other.  Kate sinks her focus into nothing but the feel of the gun in her hand and the precision of her shooting, and when she’s done is wholly content that she could not have shot any better.  She might even have won.

Castle, by contrast, is not quite as smooth as usual.  He wants to win, but images of Kate’s brilliant, open smile keep getting between him and the target.  Still, when he’s finished he’s fairly confident that he’s won. 

Neither of them is happy when the scores are added up.  It’s a draw.  It’s still a draw after they have both vociferously demanded a recount.  Twice.

“Now what?”

“Morally,” Kate smirks, “I’ve won.”  Castle chokes.

“How do you get to that conclusion?  It was a draw.”

“You were so sure you were going to win.  You didn’t.  So morally I’ve won.  Where are you taking me for dinner?  I want to make sure I wear the right sort of dress.”  She smiles very slowly, and licks her lips delicately.  But even that piece of blatantly seductive bribery isn’t – quite - distracting Castle from the unfairness of that statement.

“No way.  I’m still one up.  I’ve outshot you” –

“Once.”

“Still, I’ve outshot you.  You’ve never outshot me.  So I’m still ahead.  So you provide dinner.”

They’re still squabbling about it out on the street, and all the way along the street, until Castle suddenly bounces up and down. 

“I’ve got an idea.”  Kate rolls her eyes.

“Ye-es?” she drawls, clearly underwhelmed by this statement.

“We’ll each do dinner.  I’ll take you out one night – rather than dinner at the loft with Mother and Alexis” – that sounds like a good plan.  No added extras – “and you can cook, or whatever, the next.  That’s fair.”  He sounds like a happy little boy.  Right up till the next sentence.  “I wanna see you in this dress.”  That doesn’t sound like a little boy at all.  It sounds very adult indeed.  His expression’s pretty adult, too.  Kate suddenly wonders whether he means to take her to dinner or simply have her for dinner.  Either would be very acceptable.

“Okay.”  She pauses, significantly.

“Yes?”

“What about dinner tonight?”   Castle looks a little nonplussed.  “I need dinner. Even if you’re dieting.”  And now he’s synthetically outraged.  She sniggers.

“So easy, Castle.”

“I don’t need to diet.  But if you think I need more exercise, I’ve got a few suggestions…”  Not subtle at all, Castle.  She favours him with a glare, and he backtracks.  Slightly.  Just long enough to put an arm round her shoulders and for them to start moving again.  “What about dinner, Kate?”

“Let’s go to Remy’s.  Haven’t been there for a while.  And then why don’t you come back to mine?”

“Let’s.”  And so they do.


	76. Better than before

Early on Friday Kate’s on her way to the re-qualification range, buoyed up by the knowledge that she’s passed re-evaluation, she’s (well, nearly) out-shot Castle, who is a better natural shot than she is, and the boys are expecting her back on Monday.  _Last piece of the jigsaw_ , she thinks happily, as she pulls into a handy parking space.

It’s as well she’s done as much practice as she has in the precinct range, because if she hadn’t this would have made her very, very nervous.  Not because of her shooting, not because of flashbacks or PTSD; but because of the constant noise and gun reports that even with ear defenders are audible.  If she’d tried this without practice she’d have fled screaming within a minute of entering.  But she did and she has and the Glock feels perfectly comfortable in her hand and the slot they put her in is familiar enough and when she’s finished she doesn’t need the range master to tell her that she’s well over the minimum requirement.

She’s done it.  Back to being Detective Beckett of the Twelfth Precinct, starting Monday morning.  She’ll have her shield in her hand and her gun on her hip and her high heels on and her team around her and Castle at her back.  Back to normal. 

She’s got her life back.  Only better than before.

Today, she calls Castle, doesn’t text.

“We’re back in business, Monday morning.”  He can hear the happiness in her voice, and then the smirk when she continues, “I hope you haven’t forgotten where to get coffee and my breakfast?”

“Never, Detective.”  Not ever.  Bringing her coffee is his job, and his delight.  “How long will it take you to get back here now?”

“Depends on the traffic.  Why?”

“Because,” he says very smugly, “ _I_ have got us a table at Jean-Georges tonight, and you’ll want time to clean up nice.  Find that dress you keep mentioning.  Can’t remember when I last saw you in a dress.”  His voice drops into a deeper register, slightly growling, slightly husky.  “I can’t wait to see this dress.”  Pause.  “On the floor.”

She can’t say anything for just a second, stunned, not by the words, which after all are not unexpected, especially since she’s been winding him up to that for a couple of days, but by the note of hungry possessiveness under them.  She’s not even sure he knows he’s used it.  The implications tingle down her spine and nerves.  He’s back to seeing her as badass Beckett, and if he has been holding back a little because she’s been hurt and damaged and broken, he won’t be any more.  Oh.  Oh wow.  She firmly resists the temptation simply to tell him she’ll be at his as fast as the gumball will get her there – that would be an abuse of the badge, and she isn’t even back yet – and when she gets there he’d better be ready to play _hard_ , and only asks demurely what time he’ll pick her up.  She thinks about her extensive wardrobe all the way home, and by the time she gets there has decided.

She’s wrong about one thing.  Castle knows exactly what tone of voice he was using.  Though he hadn’t done it deliberately, it just… happened.  Beckett’s back in business, and that’s the woman he originally fell for, full force, full on.  He loves every aspect of her, but he can’t wait for her to be back in the precinct, solving crimes and catching killers and her whole personality, drive and focus back in all its brilliance.  Any subconscious need to take care, to hold back, not to overwhelm her has slunk away, unnoticed and unmourned.  He grins to himself as he remembers that he’s bribed both his mother and Alexis into staying elsewhere, tonight and most of tomorrow.  It had taken surprisingly little persuasion.

* * *

 

Kate rifles through her dress collection – a concept which she thinks would have amazed Castle, who probably doesn’t believe she has more than the couple he’s already seen and the one he gave her, back when – and finally finds the one she’s looking for.  _Oh yes.  Hold on to your hat, Castle.  It’s gonna be a wild ride._   She dresses carefully, from the skin out, and smiles with considerable, sensual, satisfaction.  When Castle raps on the door she’s perfectly ready, with a soft wrap swathed around her which hides the majority of what she’s wearing.

Castle is just a little disappointed that Kate’s already put a wrap on, but it certainly doesn’t stop him taking the opportunity to kiss her in a leisurely, possessive fashion.  Though it’s even more disappointing that he can’t tell anything about the dress through the wrap, no matter where he puts his hands.  Well.  That could easily be made not true.  But he’d promised to take her _to_ dinner, not _for_ dinner.  Though that smile promises that later will be … interesting.  When she quite deliberately bites her lip, and he _knows_ she knows exactly what it does to him, he’s sure of it. He escorts her out with his hand just a little lower on her back than is wholly appropriate and hopes they’ll at least make it through the main course.  Dessert won’t be optional.  It just might not be in the restaurant. 

When Kate shrugs the wrap off her shoulders in one slinky movement for an instant Castle thinks about not even staying for the amuse-bouche.  Then he takes a second look.  It then takes him a noticeable space of time to recover any higher functions at all.  Such as breathing.  He just stares.  That dress – he supposes it’s a dress, though he’d call it the epitome of the sin of lust – is surely illegal in most states of the Union.  It ought to be, anyway.  No-one should be allowed out in public in a dress like that.  It’s not fair to stop half the human race breathing.  Mass killing is still _not allowed_.  It’s midnight blue, fitted to every curve on the top, slim skirt.  So far, so good.  But the designer appears to have forgotten a back, except for a narrow criss-cross strap, and when Kate moves the designer also appears to have incorporated a slit in the skirt that is approximately an eighth of an inch the right side of an arrest warrant.  Probably his, for indecency in public.

“Close your mouth, Castle.  You’ll catch flies.” 

He obeys with an audible gulp, and is very glad that the waiter is holding Kate’s chair.  His depth perception is a little skewed right now.  It seems not to go beyond Kate.  Her smile is utterly satisfied, seductive, and teasing.  It’s just _not fair_ because now he has to sit through what will undoubtedly be a five-star dinner and he won’t taste a bite of it because _that dress_ has burnt out all but a very specific set of brain cells which are only thinking about one thing.  Which is not how _dinner_ will taste.  And Kate’s smirking at him.  Which is also _not fair_ , because he is absolutely not able to kiss the smirk off her right now _._   _Just you wait, Kate Beckett.  Just you wait.  I’ll have my revenge, and we’ll both enjoy it._

Dinner, Kate thinks happily, is absolutely delicious.  Much like Castle’s pole-axed expression when she slid her wrap off.  He’s still not wholly recovered, though at least he’s now able to talk.  That had seemed a little difficult for him, for several moments after they’d sat down.  She realises that he’s starting to get some game back a few seconds after their main courses arrive, when she feels his hand slip over her knee.  She retaliates with a foot rubbed over his ankle.  The main course perhaps doesn’t get the full attention the quality of the cooking deserves, after that.  But she definitely wants dessert.  She thinks that Castle does too, though his definition of dessert is currently some distance away from hers.  Then again, she is fully capable of thinking about two things at once.  Unlike Castle, who is only thinking about one thing.  Give the man credit, though, he doesn’t look in the slightest upset that she’d like dessert here.  Merely a little… tense.

Watching Kate eat dessert is …difficult.  Not so much because Castle’s desperate to get her out of here – he’s an adult, he has self-control.  Sort of – but because he’s never seen anyone perform foreplay with a spoon quite like this.  He’s exceedingly uncomfortable long before she’s finished, and when she is, he is only too glad that she declines coffee and that the extremely attentive waiter – yeah, he’d be an extremely attentive waiter too if that dress walked into his station – is also extremely swift to get the check.  Though Castle doesn’t let the waiter hold Kate’s wrap for her.  No way.  The waiter’s not getting his hands anywhere near Kate.  No-one is but him.  Not ever again.

Castle’s politely held the car door open for Kate and then gone round to his own side to get in.  But when Kate opens her mouth, just as he’s locking his seatbelt into place, on _Thank you_ , she gets almost as far as the _Th_ before he’s on her, firm and hungry and dominant and devastating.  Seems she’d made the right choice of dress after all.  And then she gives up thinking until she realises that the car’s stopped at Castle’s block.

“Everyone’s out till late tomorrow,” he murmurs into her ear, giving it a tiny nip.  “Just you and me.”  The deep promise in his tone almost undoes her there and then.

They behave with perfect propriety in the lobby, and in the elevator, and in the hall.  And then the door closes behind them and propriety is left staring at the wrong side of it.  It’s just as well the door is sturdy.  Otherwise propriety might have been very shocked indeed.  The dress looks fabulous.  On the floor.  What’s underneath it also looks fabulous.  Also on the floor.  Holding back has certainly ceased to be an issue, if it ever had been.

Some time quite a lot later, they’re wrapped up together in Castle’s large, and currently extremely untidy, bed, spent.

“Stay the night here.”  Castle sounds just fractionally less certain than he ought to be.   Kate had no intention of going anywhere.  She’s not sure she could convince her body to move.  Especially as she doesn’t want to.

“Sure.  Don’t wanna go.”  She wriggles more comfortably into his arms and pulls the comforter over herself.  Seconds later her eyes are closed and she’s limp and soft against him.  Castle’s not far behind, the warmth of Kate in his arms and his bed telling him that she’s dived right in.  His last thought before oblivion is that he never wants to be anywhere else.  _One day, I won’t be_.

* * *

 

Coffee and breakfast eventually take place, not without a few unscheduled delays, and Castle arranges a car to get Kate home without involving a cab, the subway or any other form of transport that involves going further than the front of either block.  He doesn’t want even to be tangentially responsible for mass asphyxiation.

“My turn for dinner tonight, Castle.  What time’d you like to come over?”  Castle considers.  Late enough that he has some time with his family, because, first, he wants to see them and, second, doesn’t need any new misunderstandings there, early enough that they have plenty time together.

“Um.  Half seven?  Will there be apple pie?  I didn’t get any last time.”  He looks deliberately pathetic and pleading.

“Wait and see.”  But she prowls over to him and kisses him very comprehensively until only the thought that if he doesn’t let go dinner may not happen at all allows him to release her.

She’s half-tempted, at home, to order take-out pizza and ice-cream, just to tease him, but then she thinks that after tomorrow she’ll be living on constant take-outs of dubious colours and far too many E-numbers, and goes back to the original plan of real food.  Including apple pie, since he’d asked so nicely.  Well, pathetically.  She’s really got to stop letting that expression work on her every single time.  She’s a cop, dammit, not a soft touch.  And then she realises what she’s just thought and her whole world slams sideways, back in balance again, perfectly restored. 

 _She’s a cop_.  Nothing less. 

* * *

 

When Kate opens the door Castle is convinced something’s changed, though the delectable aroma of apple pie with cinnamon and cloves is almost enough to distract him.  The kiss he receives certainly is.  He’s still uncurling his toes when Kate’s ten feet away.  So whatever’s up, it’s not a problem with them.  He realises he’s still just a little insecure about them.  Hard upon the thought, he realises that that is probably not too surprising.  It’s still very, very new.  There are bound to be bumps in the road; the trick will be to surmount them together.  She’ll run away, and he’ll need to go after her; he’ll avoid or evade or duck, and she’ll need to call him out.  Because that’s what partners do, at home or out of it.  And some day, maybe not quite soon, but some day, together, they’ll be more.

Over dinner, and conversation about Monday, and a really quite excellent apple pie, Castle realises what the difference in Kate is.  She’s eager to go back, without a single tiny reservation in her voice.  Even over the previous week or so, there’d been a little hint of uncertainty.  Now there’s none at all.  She’s wholly ready.  

She’s a cop again: ready to be first through the door, gun up, high heels on, taking down the bad guys in style.  But at the core, she’ll also be his, and that changes everything about Kate, even while everything about Detective Beckett remains the same.  So he spends the rest of the evening making love to her slowly, with every beat of his heart and touch of his body showing her everything he is, and wants to be, and can be; with her and because of her and for her; and in return she does the same for him, all evening, until finally he feels able to leap and whispers in her ear _love you, Kate_.  He almost cries when she murmurs back _love you too_ , as if it’s so obvious and she says it so often she doesn’t need to make a fuss about it.

He won’t see her tomorrow: she needs to prepare for Monday, some space and time, though truthfully he doesn’t think she needs it; still, she wants it and she’s explained that, and more importantly why, in words and in detail, why, she needs it and he'd give her the world if he could, so this is easy because finally she  _talks_  to him.  Space and time and being Detective Beckett without any distraction at all.  Just for this one day, no distractions. 

But she’s said it, she said it, she said it.   She loves him and _she said it_.

* * *

 

Monday morning Beckett walks into the precinct, and the entire bullpen rises to her entry and applauds.  It’s what they do, when an injured officer returns.

She slips her coat on the back of her chair, looks at her pristine desk (Ryan must have found a duster somewhere) with pleasure, and goes to report to her new Captain with her re-evaluation and requalifying certificates.

It’s very strange, to see another face in place of Montgomery, sudden sharp pain that she manages to conceal.  Captain Gates is not regarding her with any great enthusiasm, but at least Beckett had had the sense to get a download of certain matters from Esposito.

“Sir.  Detective Beckett, returning to duty, sir.”  The lack of enthusiasm recedes fractionally.  Beckett presents her certificates and is given back her shield and her gun.  She thinks that Gates might have spotted her delight to have them back, because there’s another small increase in the temperature of Gates’ chilly regard.

“Glad to have you back, Detective.”  That’s a relief.  “However” – oh.  That’s not sounding good – “I understand you come with an attachment.”  It takes Beckett a second to catch up.

“Sir.”  She’s not going to pretend ignorance of her new Captain’s meaning.

“I have been instructed to permit Mr Castle” – even when Beckett first had to put up with Castle, she hadn’t managed quite that level of detestation in speaking his name – “to continue to follow you around.  Understand, Detective, that I am doing so under protest.  Civilians have, in my opinion, no place in this precinct.  It appears, however, that I have no choice.”  Gates produces a glare that Beckett herself could not have bettered.  “Keep him away from me.”  She pauses, listening to an increase in the bullpen noise.  “Starting _right now_.”

“Yessir.”

“Dismissed.  And remember, keep your civilian under control.”  Beckett thankfully escapes, wondering how she’s supposed to keep Castle under control.  She’s never managed that.  She’s fairly certain that it’s not physically possible.   But.  She’s back.  He’s back.  Ryan and Esposito are at their desks and ready to roll.  All they need now is a body to drop, and the four of them will do their jobs again, just like it used to be, just like it should be.

Castle wanders into the bullpen with two coffees, a bear claw and a large box of doughnuts to remind everyone why they like him, and is greeted with sufficient enthusiasm to be perfectly happy.  He pulls a chair back to where it should be, in his accustomed place at the side of Beckett’s desk, and waits for her, and for a body.  And soon enough, that same afternoon, a body drops and it’s very nearly like it used to be, except that Kate won’t go into a scene without Esposito – orders, apparently, till she’s shown she can pull a gun on a suspect, and if she doesn’t stick to that there will be very unpleasant consequences.  So regardless of how little she likes having a babysitter, she does it.

It takes them all a few days to work their way through the trail of mixed motives, lies and alibis; the money and the phone records.  The murder board is populated, scribbled on, rearranged and glared at till there should be a hole burnt through it.  It’s wonderfully, perfectly normal.  And nearly every night, Kate goes home with, or to, Castle.  Discreetly.  He’s nearly stopped hiding in the break room every time Gates comes out her office, too.  Nearly.

On the sixth day they go to take the killer down.  It’s a dingy hall, doors to sublets with dubious professions waiting behind them.  Esposito shouts, and when there’s no reply kicks the door in for Beckett to lead, gun out.  They find him in the main room, but when Beckett tells him he’s under arrest he pulls a gun on her.  A second later he’s on the floor, shot.  She hadn’t even twitched.  Castle breathes a very tiny, well-hidden sigh of complete relief.

“Guess you won’t need me any more, Beckett?” Espo says happily.  He’d not liked having to follow her around.  ‘S not right, having to protect Beckett in case it all goes wrong.

“Nope.  You can go back to your marriage to Ryan.”  She grins widely.  “We’re all good.”

As they vacate the building Castle is dawdling, watching Beckett and wholly happy, because Kate loves him, and he loves her, and everything is just perfect because they’re on their way back from a crime scene and she’s calling out to him.

“ _You coming, Castle?_ ”

Just like always.


	77. Epilogue

**_From the American Journal of Psychiatry, September 2013._ **

A major contribution to the field of relationship counselling has been made by Dr Carter J. Burke.  This book significantly progresses the understanding of the difficulties which unresolved post-traumatic stress disorder may cause in inter-personal relationships and analyses the importance of reaching the roots of such issues.  An exposition of the key use by the practitioner of the technique of encouraging the patient in honestly recognising their misconceptions is one of the most detailed and accurate this reviewer has ever seen.  This book will undoubtedly become a key text in this field, and deservedly so.  Dr Burke is to be most highly commended for this work.

* * *

Dr Burke re-reads the review with considerable pleasure, in his new office.  Of course, he is still a recommended psychiatrist for the NYPD, which work continues to give him great satisfaction.  However, he is equally content with his new role.  He looks at the brass plate on his door, and smiles.  A very pleasing resolution.

**Professor Carter J. Burke, Chair of Relationship Counselling, NYU.**

**Endowed by RE Castle.**

He opens his post, noting with some interest a heavy weave white envelope.  He leaves that to be considered last: deferred gratification being a necessary component of personal development.  Finally, after dealing with a considerable number of advertisements for professional development and drugs of varying degrees of therapeutic value, he turns to it and extracts a card.

**_Katherine Beckett_ **

**_and_ **

**_Richard Castle_ **

**_request the pleasure of your company at their forthcoming marriage_ **

 

* * *

A very pleasing resolution, indeed.


End file.
